


The Duty That Cannot Be Forsworn

by TheMoments (TBs_LMC)



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair (Dragon Age) Backstory, Alistair's Mother, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antiva (Dragon Age), Archdemons (Dragon Age), Awakening Era Anders (Dragon Age), BAMF Fergus, BAMF Mabari, BAMF Zevran, Battle, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brotherly Love, Cailan Backstory, Cailan is Dead But There are Flashbacks, Character Death, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Declarations Of Love, Deep Roads (Dragon Age), Devotion, Dragon Age Lore, Duncan Was Everyone's Dad, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Forced Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Good Templars (Dragon Age), Griffon Backstory, Healers, It Hit Him Out Of The Blue, King Alistair and Queen Cousland, Loghain and Howe Are Going Down, M/M, Mabari, Making Love, Minor Character Death, Morning Sickness, Morrigan is Bad, My Cousland Is A Mage Who Never Went to the Circle, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Pregnancy, Rescue Missions, Second Thoughts, Stark Realizations, Supportive and Loving Alistair, Sweet Anders (Dragon Age), Swooping is bad, Tevinter Culture and Customs, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), Torture, Twins, Warden Cousland (Dragon Age), Wynne Is Everyone's Grandma, Zevran Arainai Backstory, grand enchanter fiona, griffons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TBs_LMC/pseuds/TheMoments
Summary: When Lucia Cousland was recruited to the Grey Wardens she was a noble mage who had never been surrendered to the Circle. From that night forward her life has been a series of situations not under her control, all herding her toward a final showdown that nobody is expected to survive.Alistair has also been pushed in the same direction since the day he was born. And he's always been very good at playing the part of buffoon to keep from having to do the thing he was actually born to do. But is what has been asked of him by his dead brother going too far? Is this really how he wants his life to be?Zevran Arainai was an orphaned elf sold on the slave market to the Antivan Crows, and trained to murder from the time he was a small child. As time passes after swearing his loyalty to Lucia, he finds himself opening up in ways he never thought possible, especially after what happened with Rinna.Anders is a runaway Spirit Healer from the Circle of Ferelden who has had no say about his life since he was twelve, and yet he's been making his own choices anyway. When those lead him to the sides of two Grey Wardens in the midst of a blight, he finds a whole new world of possibilities that never before existed for him.
Relationships: Alistair & Cailan Theirin, Alistair & Cullen Rutherford, Alistair/Anders (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Female Cousland/Cailan Theirin, Zevran Arainai & Fergus Cousland, Zevran Arainai/Female Cousland, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Kudos: 2





	1. Well, Shit

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely A/U, although there is enough fitting canon that I feel like this could actually have happened had Bioware chosen a different direction for the main DAO storyline.

_**“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten... and that one day, we shall join you.”** _

Lucia Cousland had never intended for any of this to happen. It was proof, at least in her mind, that some larger force was at work in all their lives. That in spite of the Chantry’s teachings, the Maker had definitely not abandoned them. Either that, or there was some other unseen force moving them all around like chess pieces on a massive playing board that bore the name Ferelden.

The series of events that had led her to this moment, however, where she was curled over a log in the middle of the Brecilian Forest vomiting everything she’d consumed recently onto the forest floor, seemed a fitting pathway if it led to something not only this gross and uncomfortable, but also this embarrassing.

Part of her had originally wondered if this was the darkspawn blood she’d ingested to become a Grey Warden finally being violently rejected by her body. Alistair thought that might be the case as well and was anxious for them to reach the Dalish clan they sought on the morrow, as they would have skilled healers there to check her out. Until then, however, all she could do was miserably sink to the pine-needle and leaf-covered ground and accept the skin of water that her attentive fellow Warden offered.

Duke, her beloved Duke who was all muscle and teeth and legs and massive paws, lay not far away staring intently at her and whining in concern at intervals. Zevran was nowhere in sight, but Lucia presumed he was making sure nothing and no one ambushed them while she was so incapacitated that the very thought of holding her staff would have made her buckle at the knees had she not already been down.

Alistair didn’t seem to know what to say. He remained crouched nearby, watching and listening. Lucia’s mind returned to the events that had led her to this place, this moment. To the path that had brought her here.

Arl Howe had decided to turn on her family, because Loghain the Traitor needed the powerful Couslands out of the way and Howe’s success in being his fearsome left hand would see the Arl granted with great power and wealth, which was all he’d ever wanted anyway. Remove the ones most likely to not only have the numbers to stop you terrorizing Ferelden, but also the teyrn who could so easily sway nearly all nobles against you. Smart move, politically. Bad move for the vengeance Lucia knew that both she and Alistair would be taking against him for his treachery not only at Highever, but toward their king.

In spite of feeling so godsawful, Lucia could not help but blush at the thought of the monarch even though he was so tragically gone now.

Duncan, who had held her as she wailed in agony over the loss of her parents while traveling together to Ostagar, of having to leave them behind while they were alive, knowing that before she and her rescuer had even left the area they’d have been savagely murdered by Howe’s men. She had wondered this past six weeks whatever had become of Ser Gilmore. He, too, must have met a grisly end while valiantly covering for what he thought would be she and her parents’ escape.

Only Lucia and Duncan had survived.

Now only she.

Tears streamed unbidden down her cheeks even now and thank the Maker it was dark so Alistair couldn’t see them. As much as he, in his six months of Wardenship, had loved the man, so too had Lucia begun falling irrevocably in love with Duncan prior to his death on the battlefield. The two newest recruits were as children and he, the benevolent and compassionate father who loved them unconditionally. She’d gotten to know him, and the safe circle of his arms as he held her like he would have his own daughter had he been graced with one, as she had grieved and then slowly begun to listen more to him and less to her anguish as their trek progressed.

And so she mourned nearly as greatly, perhaps, the loss of the bearded man with the gentle soul who would look at you with love and tenderness when you needed it but sternly prop you up until you were able to stand on your own when required, not altogether different from her true father. She and Alistair had shed many mutual tears in the aftermath of Ostagar, sitting close together and sharing grief, yet chasms apart from each other in every other way, completely drowning in feeling alone and lost.

Only she’d also been shedding tears for a man that she had met, loved and lost in less than half of a full day cycle. The secret she held close to her heart wasn’t of love or anything so fairy tale, really. No, it was a secret that had now entrenched fear and dread next to love and grief and kept her chest so tight that at times she could barely breathe. For Lucia knew why she felt ill. It was something she recalled her mother having spoken of enduring back when she had become with child first with Fergus and then with her.

What made it a thousand times worse, was how similar Alistair was in look to the other man she mourned. The man who had been an unexpected pleasure, then a nearly unbearable choking sensation of grief and now a severe complication, the implications of which made her pull herself up and over the fallen log again to retch, though this time naught came forth but the sips of water she’d just taken.

Without a sound Alistair appeared next to her. Tentatively at first and then with more certainty, he began rubbing her back very gently. Her discomfort had forced her to remove her protective magically-infused armor, which was why her three boys, as she had come to refer to Zev, Al and Duke, were being so vigilant and overprotective right now.

“Lucia, are you…going to be okay?”

Her shoulders sagged. “Eventually,” she managed to huff out.

He sat down next to her as she righted herself and leaned back against the huge log next to him. He handed her the skin of water again. She took it and drank. In the total darkness surrounding them there was nothing to distract her, and her mind wandered back to the moment when she and Duncan had arrived at Ostagar, only to be personally greeted by…

_“Your Majesty!”_

_Lucia had become breathless, barely able to speak. Cailan was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen, and his smile made her stomach flip almost painfully. Had it been her imagination, she wondered in that moment, the look in the King’s eyes, the slightly upturned corner of his mouth whilst greeting her?_

_“Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks.”_

_How would Cailan have had any idea about whether or not Lucia and her abilities would benefit anyone? Other than the stave strapped to her back, he wouldn’t have a clue where her skills might even lie. Did he know he had an apostate on his hands? A woman whose family nobility had kept her out of the Circle of Magi against every law of the land? Did he care?_

_Even Duncan had said he wasn’t sure why Cailan had wanted Lucia to attend their planning meeting. It should have been for strategists and advisors only, not hours-old Warden recruit mages. And yet he had specifically asked Duncan to bring her, and Lucia pondered the reasons why. Coincidence? Wanting something pretty to look at while Loghain barked things at him that he didn’t want to hear? Had he kept glancing at her as they talked, so surreptitiously that she herself had been hard-pressed to notice…or had that, too, been her own wishful thinking?_

_It had not; that much became clear some hours later when she’d been exploring the camp at Duncan’s instruction while she waited to be sent off to the Tower of Ishal with Alistair. The task: to light the beacon which would inform Loghain that his troops were to be released upon the melee that Cailan, Duncan and the other Grey Wardens would already be in the midst of._

_She stopped first at Loghain’s tent to inquire about the man. His rude minder had put her off and she had moved along to the next tent, at which she’d spoken to a very kind man who’d been happy to submit to her charms and tell her of the differences between how King Cailan saw the upcoming battle and current situation, and how his military advisor and resident war hero saw it. She was enjoying their conversation, and learning more about their handsome king, when suddenly the man himself had thrown back the tent flap, no longer wearing his armor but sporting a smile that seemed to light the night as day._

_“Aha, I thought certain it was your voice I heard,” he grinned as she blushed._

_His personal guard turned and shook his head, a fond smile gracing his features. “Your Majesty, you snuck into your tent again.”_

_“Well, I have to make sure Loghain doesn’t think I spent all night drinking with Duncan and the others,” he pouted and no, Lucia did not find that adorable in any way, shape or form. “However, I don’t think he could possibly balk at me happily entertaining a fine noblewoman who is set to join her brothers in battle on the morrow, now, could he?”_

_Lucia marveled at how smooth Cailan was, for his guard stepped aside without preamble and bowed slightly to her. “My apologies, I didn’t realize, Miss.”_

_“Not at all,” Lucia replied graciously. “However, I am certain His Majesty would do better with some sleep to prepare for his glory at morn.”_

_“Nonsense,” Cailan replied. “Don’t make me go through the pains of a royal decree to get some help removing my mind from being fraught with visions of impending doom,” he practically begged and, well, Lucia had always been known for leaping into the abyss when required, much to her mother’s consternation. And so she blushed appropriately, nodded and curtsied, and entered King Cailan’s tent._

_Where she soon discovered they were now alone together._

_He moved quickly to stand in front of her. “There isn’t much time,” he said, “before I must re-gird myself and enter the fray with my men.” He boldly caressed her cheek. “I must know before I share my burden with you, My Lady Cousland, and please forgive all my boldness but haste requires it be so… have you ever lain with a man?”_

_Taken aback, she felt her face heat so fast she thought perhaps it might combust and thus did not trust her voice but instead merely shook her head in response, lowering her eyes._

_“I have two urgent requests to make of you this night,” he continued after a murmured hum of approval. “First, I shall place a letter in your care and keeping. A letter that is more valuable to Ferelden than I can possibly state. I trust you will ensure that should something happen to me, the letter sees its way into Alistair’s hands and that of no other, but not until six weeks have passed.”_

_Trembling as his hand continued cupping the side of her face and his mouth was so close to hers she could feel his breath upon her lips, she nodded and on a cracked and broken voice replied, “I will see it done as you wish, Your Highness.”_

_He nodded, looked away for a moment and then returned his gaze to her face. Cailan first stroked her ebony hair, which had been tied back for practicality. He loosed it and it fell to below her shoulders. His fingers carded through her slightly curled tresses while his other hand stroked her jawbone, thumb moving to trace her red-flushed lips._

_“Your eyes are the most curiously gem-like state of blue,” he half-whispered. “Maker’s breath, but you are beautiful.”_

_Her own breath hitched and she felt like she was very nearly panting as badly as Duke did after a battle. “What is…Your Majesty’s second…request?” she managed to ask, though her wits were failing her miserably at this point. Cailan’s body heat alone was enough to send her reeling._

_“I will not force myself upon you,” the king stated with none of the authority of a sovereign being, but all the desperation of a man. “I ask that you let me lie with you here. Now. Will you give your maidenhead to me?”_

_Her breath stopped. She thought her heart did, too. Not trusting her voice, she simply nodded, but Cailan was having none of it._

_“I’m not the king. I’m just a man who lived with farmers and got made a king because of an accident of birth,” he stated firmly. “And unlike King Maric, I have not left any heirs legitimate or otherwise, yet here I am set to undertake the greatest battle of my life which may very well result in my death.” His mouth was so close to hers that she knew if she pursed her lips, she’d be kissing him by default. “Please say you will allow me to enter the glory of battle with hope for my kingdom’s future, at the very least.”_

_And at last, she understood. “And should you survive? What comes of me as an unwed noble carrying the King of Ferelden’s bastard child?”_

_“Had there been no Anora, there would have been you, Lucia,” he stated. “You were my betrothed until Loghain brought his daughter to purposely cement his hold over my father’s throne.”_

_She gasped. Her head was spinning._

_“Say yes for me this night and I swear to you on my life and Andraste’s holy mercy that I will forever ensure your care and well-being and that of any child which may result from our union.”_

_Lucia knew that the odds of her actually becoming laden with child after only one time were not incredibly large. She and her mother had had many talks of such things as she had prepared for womanhood over the past year. Even so, that Cailan would trust the future of his country to her womb was overwhelming, not to mention one of the sexiest situations she’d ever encountered. And thus she said…_

“Yes.”

“Mm? What’s that?”

Lucia felt her face heat up as she realized she’d spoken aloud. “Nothing, Al, never mind,” she replied hastily. “I think I’m ready to return to my bedroll now.”

“Right. Come along, then, my dear.”

As Lucia’s insides finally calmed down well enough for her to sleep, she thought about how she hadn’t yet given Alistair the letter. And vowed to herself that if the Dalish healers confirmed for her tomorrow the suspicions she had about what was causing her bad humors, she would take Al aside to a private place and finally hand it over. After all, she didn’t know what it said. Perhaps it would disclose her secret for her. Although given the fact that Cailan had written and sealed it before their laying together had occurred, she highly doubted it.

Which meant she’d then have to pile her secret on top of whatever was in his half-brother’s letter. After all, if she was indeed correct, within a few months there wouldn’t be any way to hide it.

And that would make the quest she and Alistair were on, all the more complicated and impossible than it already was.

Well, shit.


	2. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair receives a letter. Lucia reveals a secret. The plot, as they say, thickens.

The elves had confirmed that Cailan’s desire had come to pass. She hadn’t yet confided in Al or Zev or, sweet blood of Andraste, Wynne or Morrigan. But Lucia had followed through on the vow she’d made the night before. She’d asked the others to remain with Keeper Lanaya while she took Alistair to the other side of the camp, beyond the sick halla she’d been unable to help with, over a small rise to an area of privacy.

And so as they stopped at a place with a large and somewhat flat stone that would make a good seat, Alistair turned a very concerned gaze upon her, invaded her personal space as he’d lately begun to do, and asked breathlessly, “What did they say? What’s wrong with you? Are you going to be all right? Is it the taint? Is it—?”

She couldn’t help but laugh as she covered his mouth with her hand to still him. It worked, and that adorably confused and kicked puppy look he was so good at sporting appeared. So she removed her hand from his face, fished in the small pack she wore round her waist and pulled out something their dead king had touched. He had trusted _her_ to deliver tis. It’d taken her nearly seven weeks to do so, but here they finally were.

Hand shaking, she handed it to him. “Your brother,” she said, then her voice hitched. The look on Alistair’s face? She couldn’t decipher it. “He asked that if something happened to him at Ostagar, I deliver this into your hands.”

In disbelief he took the sealed letter clearly written on royal parchment. “But it’s been so long. Why did you wait?”

“He asked me to delay by six weeks. My…recent issues…have put me off following that request precisely, for I am now five days late in giving it unto your hand.”

Alistair swallowed hard and sank onto the large, flat stone. She followed suit. His hands were also trembling as he broke the King’s seal and unfolded what turned out to be a several-pages-long letter.

“I barely knew him in person,” Alistair whispered, voice thick with emotion. “And yet it hurts so deeply, like Duncan.”

“I know,” Lucia whispered back. Oh, how she knew.

Alistair appeared to read the first few lines, but then thrust the letter at her, rose to his feet and paced away. “Read it for me,” he practically begged, sounding for all the world like he was already weeping. He turned his back to her. “Please, Lucia, I…I can’t.”

She nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “All right.” She steeled herself with a deep, shaking breath.

_“Dear Brother,_

_I know that you and I have barely spoken and that there has been no great love between us, but I write this to you and secrete it with someone who will grow to be very important not just to me and you, but to this country of our father, King Maric, may the Maker grant him rest._

_There is a reason that during our battle planning I will ask you and the newest Grey Warden to be the ones to light the beacon, thereby placing you and she both as far away from the front lines of battle as I can without causing suspicion._

_I do not have tangible evidence of what follows, or I would have already brought it to bear. But I fear that Loghain means to do me harm in some fashion, and quite possibly use the battle against the darkspawn to meet whatever gains he seeks._

_He is an ambitious man who pursues more and more power as time passes, and though he has always been a brilliant strategist and was once the most loyal confidante of our father, I do not believe that his plans for the battle with darkspawn on the morrow are the best he could offer us._

_It feels wrong for men loyal to him to be waiting well away from where those loyal to me fight on the front lines. And since you are my half-brother, son of my father, if the worst happens to me then it falls to you to challenge what I believe Loghain will attempt, which is to seize the throne either directly himself, or through his daughter, my wife, our Queen._

_No one but you has any hope of gaining power and support enough to challenge him, though I have a secondary plan I hope to put into motion that may help. But there is no telling whether I will be successful. And thus, in truth, it falls to you, and you will need another Warden to protect you and keep you alive through whatever this blighted land will be facing beyond the impending battle, for I believe Duncan’s prediction that an archdemon will appear. If not on the morrow, then soon._

_That is where Lucia comes into the picture, and why I will send her with you rather than one of you going alone to light the beacon, or sending you with a different Warden. When I learned the identity of Duncan’s new recruit, from the messenger bird he had sent ahead to assure me of his arrival, I knew the Maker had heard my pleas and intervened at last. That Lucia was exactly the right person for both of my plans, and if the second – for you well know that all military men must have such an one should the first fail – succeeds, then she will be able to tell you of it herself._

_If nothing comes of my fears, then you will never read this. But if you are indeed seeing this, then it is the last letter that I will ever compose and it means that I am dead, that Loghain is a traitor and that you must become the next King of Ferelden. I know it is not something you ever wanted, for Duncan has made that clear to me over the years. I pray that you can forgive me for forcing it upon you in this way but I trust no one else with this country that our father loved so dearly._

_I believe that whatever plan is followed, Lucia will see it to completion according to my wishes, for her loyalty, courage and dedication to the throne have always been as clear as that of her parents, may they walk now with the Maker. Consider too, Brother, that her beauty is second to none, worthy in all extremes of the noblest blood that courses through her. Keep the secrets of her magic safe and hidden away and know that once upon a time, she was meant to become our Queen._

_As your King and your brother I am proud that you are a Grey Warden, and to have known you, however little and briefly. May you walk in the Light of the Maker and beside Blessed Andraste, and may you rule in peace and compassion._

_Find Duncan’s shield._

_Your King,_

_Cailan”_

Lucia huffed out a sob, matched only by the shaking of Alistair’s shoulders as he remained with his back to her. After what seemed an eternity, when the refolded letter now sat neglected upon the rock and she held her arms around her torso in a feeble attempt to hold herself to calmness, Alistair finally turned to her. His face was lined with tear tracks. His eyes were red. He looked like a miserable wretch.

“His backup plan,” he finally said. “It involved you.”

She nodded. “I am…” She sighed. Averted her eyes. “I carry his child, Alistair.” She half-choked on a sob. “The elves have confirmed such.”

Lucia half-expected him to haul off and hit a tree, breaking every bone in his hand. Or yell. Or look so painfully hurt that she wouldn’t be able to bear it. Maybe even confused.

Instead, after closing his eyes briefly and then reopening them with a slow blink, he spoke with a voice that was as strong and sure as it was sad and still trembling. “Duncan knew about this.” Their eyes met. “Remember when you asked if we could rejoin the battle after lighting the beacon? How he said he wanted no heroics from either of us? He was trying to keep us from the battlefront as well. You and I even remarked on that, if you’ll recall. Yes, Duncan _must_ have known of Cailan’s fears. He may even have known everything that’s in the letter. For all we know, he may have helped plan everything _in_ that letter to support the continuation of the Theirin line if something happened to Cailan with or without Loghain’s hand upon it.”

Silence stretched between them. At last, Alistair rejoined her sitting on the rock. “Are…so the reason he wanted you to wait…it was so you would know whether or not you were…you know…by the time I saw the letter, isn’t it?”

“I assume as much.”

“How…I mean…”

Lucia knew what he was asking. And so, just as he had trusted her with the truth of his royal heritage, she now entrusted him with the story of what had happened in just under two hours on the eve of the battle that had taken so very much from so very many in no time at all. She explained how she’d had no idea that she’d once been Cailan’s betrothed until he revealed it to her, for her family had never spoken of it. It seemed obvious now that Loghain had been plotting to take the throne for some time if he’d been able to break a royal arranged marriage by inserting his commoner daughter into the King’s bed all that time ago.

Yet it was not lost on Lucia now – and it seemed, not on Cailan either – that Anora had not produced a living heir at any point during their marriage. It seemed, when she reflected on the bigger picture, that the Maker was intent on Loghain and his daughter being _out_ of that picture, and on Theirins and those of noble Ferelden blood remaining in it.

From all reports, it’d been Anora doing most of the ruling, the decision-making, while Cailan – much too much like his half-brother to be mistaken as anything other than related – had been doing more playing at King than actually being one. Probably also encouraged and supported by Anora’s father. Truthfully, Loghain himself had most likely been running the entire kingdom _through_ Anora, with this unexpected Blight being what he had chosen to use as the final push to formally assume the kingship for himself.

“Bastard,” Alistair spat softly.

“And not the good kind,” Lucia added.

Alistair barked out a laugh. “It’s all the more reason to take him down, as if we didn’t have enough of one already.”

“I agree. And to do it as swiftly as possible before I can’t get armor over myself anymore.”

Alistair opened his mouth to protest, she could tell by the look on his face. The man wore every emotion out in the open. Lucia glared at him. He clamped his mouth shut. There were so very many questions that she knew they both had. They also knew that there wasn’t a single person that either of them could get those answers _from_. Not only were they on their own as the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden trying to stop a Blight, but now this. What kind of child would this even be? Would it survive? Cailan hadn’t known about the taint. It was a Grey Warden secret even the king had not been privy to. Was his planning, his bedding of her, all for naught because of that one fact he hadn’t known? Would it be okay because only she had the taint and not he?

Alistair reached out, put his arm around her shoulders, and drew her close. It was the first time he’d ever touched her outside the field of battle or while sparring or practicing close-quarters combat. Well, the second, if you counted the small circles he’d rubbed in her back last night when she’d been retching.

“I vow to fulfill my duty, and the command of my King,” he said quietly. “I owe my brother, our father and Duncan that much.” He nudged her arm with his own. “And you.”

Lucia laid her head on his shoulder, eternally grateful for him even more than she already had been. “As do I,” she responded. “Together in all things, it would seem.”

“Is it…I mean, should we, ah…” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. “I think we really need to come up with a story we tell people, and we need to do it fast because it’s our own companions we’re going to have to tell it to first. They’ll notice more quickly than anyone, especially with the sickness.”

She pulled away and looked at him. His arm slid from her shoulders. He scratched the back of his neck. “What do you mean?” she asked. “We don’t tell anyone who the father actually is?”

Alistair lowered his voice to a whisper and moved his mouth so close to her ear that when he spoke, his breath made her shiver. “If Anora or Loghain discovers that you’re carrying Cailan’s blood, their focus will shift dramatically to killing you to be rid of it, rather than half-arsed attempts to get rid of the both of us. They can’t have any inkling that you are with his child, for they would stop at nothing to see you ended for even more reason than the trouble you’ve already caused as a Warden.”

“Not to mention that removing me from the picture would leave us with only one Grey Warden.”

“Who is also a questionably legitimate heir to the throne. In essence,” Alistair stated, “Loghain is trying to steal the throne away from _two_ Theirins.” He sighed and shook his head. “It seems that the Maker’s sense of humor will see a one-time stable boy who slept in Mabari kennels become regent for a child born of a dead father and darkspawn-tainted mother.” He shrugged and grinned sardonically. “Who could have guessed at any of this?”

“I’m sorry,” Lucia said. “I know you don’t want the kingship. I know you wanted nothing more than to be a Warden. Now I’ve gone and complicated matters.”

“No, Cailan complicated matters. In fact, no, not him…my mother and father complicated it, Loghain complicated it, Maric for accepting Anora to wed Cailan, Eamon for not protesting or even trying to stop the union…everyone ‘not us’ did this. You and I, we’re…well, we’re the innocents in this, left to pick up the pieces to help a nation survive both political turmoil and a Blight.”

“No pressure, though, right?” Lucia asked.

Alistair laughed. “None that cannot be solved by cheese.”

They happened to turn their faces to one another at the same time. Their noses were touching. Their eyes met. “What do we tell everyone?”

“For right now,” Alistair said, then cleared his throat, face turning a lovely shade of scarlet for good measure. “We’ll simply have to…uh, well…that is…” He swallowed hard. “What if we tell them it’s my child?” he finally asked sheepishly. “It would at least keep your honor mostly intact.”

“Playing the honor card only works if we get married,” she blurted out, then seemed to realize what she’d said and clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Well…” Alistair started.

“Shit,” Lucia finished.

“Am I, um…really that terrible a prospect?” he finally asked.

She smiled. “According to my heart? No.”

“Your…I mean…you…dooooes…that mean what I think it does?”

“Well, it means I’d started having less-than-brotherly feelings for you, but…I don’t know, is this…awkward? I mean, I’m carrying your half-brother’s child here.”

“I, uh…well…yes, but…we kind of have to work with what we’ve got.”

“Yes. Of course. Um…okay, so…we’ll tell the others that you and I have been…” It was Lucia’s turn to blush. “Maker’s breath, it makes me sound like a harlot, sleeping with my fellow Grey Warden on the eve of battle.”

Alistair shot her a look. “Right, well, it’s not like I can order you into my bed like Cailan did.”

Her eyes narrowed. “He didn’t—!”

He blushed again and squeaked, “Can I?”

“That remains to be seen, but…I think we’d better get back because I’m starting to feel really hungry.”

Alistair jumped off the rock. “Oh! Yes! We have to take care of the…” His features softened. He smiled as he held out his hand to her. “The baby,” he finished softly.

There was so very much for them to do. To figure out. To discover. If she thought about it too much, Lucia knew it would overwhelm her to a frightening degree. And so she put it out of her mind, concentrating instead on the thought that if she _had_ been sleeping with Alistair for such a very short time, she’d be quite giddy.

When he planted a kiss on her lips after they shared the “happy news” with their companions, given that it was the first one they’d ever shared, she found ‘giddy’ quite easily achieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was playing through DAO yet again, I noted some of the interactions specifically surrounding King Cailan and my Lucia Cousland at Ostagar, and suddenly was hit with the letter he wrote that was in this chapter, which I dictated into my phone Notes in its entirety while I sat there staring at the man on-screen. I'm now even more heartbroken when he dies. :-(


	3. Return to Ostagar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressures of all that is asked of them push Alistair and Lucia further and further away from each other. It takes returning to the horrors of Ostagar for that to change.

All allied peoples with whom treaties existed, were accounted for. The abominations had already been eradicated from the Circle of Magi, First Enchanter Irving saved, Wynne an incredibly valued member of Lucia’s gaggle of misfits. Zathrian had ended the lycanthropy curse, and himself with it, leaving his clan in newly-crowned Keeper Lanaya’s capable hands once Lucia and her team had left the Brecelian whereabouts. King Bhelen sat on Orzammar’s throne with most of Lord Harrowmont and his family already executed before Lucia had made it out of the Frostbacks.

Though adorably bumblefooted about it all, Alistair had really taken the role of protector a bit far sometimes, and their companions often heard Lucia arguing with him about her place on the battlefield. In the end, she conceded to extra charms and protections for the baby but refused to step down as the leader of their small group after what she had accomplished to date. She was bound and determined to see this through, and for more reasons than most of them knew.

Finally, and not a one would admit to the fact that they’d been purposely putting this off until they couldn’t anymore, Alistair, Wynne and Duke followed Lucia into Ostagar. For a moment none of them could speak. Grief overwhelmed each in turn as innumerable bloody, mangled, defiled corpses came into view. As the bones and broken remnants of what had once been their fellows and their camp revealed each piece of wood, each torn scrap of fabric, each decimated structure with every step taken.

Darkspawn appeared everywhere they went, as if their only purpose was to wait there to fight them; as if enough damage had not already been done. Blighted wolves. Skeletons that rose from the dead on fields of blood. The four of them fought. Hard. For every pace forward, ten backward to stay alive and beat the magic of one from the underworld. Anger and fear combined in Wynne and the Wardens to the point where they became rampagers in their own right, seeing to it that not one darkspawn monster survived their coming.

Lucia’s Cousland family armor had become too snug. During their most recent visit to Denerim to collect their pay for several jobs from the tavern’s barkeep, Wade had fashioned her new armor from more drake scales she’d taken from beaten foes in the Deep Roads. Sandal had enchanted it. Wynne had worked with both Morrigan and Lucia to place wards and spells around Lucia’s womb and her whole body both via her flesh and the drakescale armor, to keep the baby from being detected or harmed. To prevent anyone from realizing there was more to Lucia than just the Grey Warden herself.

Things had become difficult. Awkward. Strained. Lucia thought perhaps that Alistair wanted more, wanted to _try_ more, but so focused was she on their goals as Wardens, all too keenly aware that it wouldn’t be long until there would be no hope of hiding the baby growing inside her from outside eyes, she hadn’t time to think of her heart or his. Later, when she was burdened with labor and the care of a future King of Ferelden, and the darkspawn had retreated to the Deep Roads there would be time, she reasoned.

And they fought bitterly about the final battle. About who should face the archdemon. They both knew it would be insanely dangerous even discounting the fact that at the end of it, they had to slay a dragon. Lucia refused to let Al face it himself. Al refused to allow her to put herself – and therefore, Cailan’s child – at risk doing something there were plenty of others to help him do. They couldn’t all three of them die, he argued, or there would quite literally be nobody left to seize control of the throne away from Loghain and Anora, and Ferelden – if that came to pass – might have wished it had succumbed to the Blight in its entirety.

By the time they met what was left of Ostagar, the two Wardens were exhausted. Wynne had to work hard just to keep her charges at normal form, never mind any injuries sustained in fights. As they picked their way through the infirmary, where the terrified soldier had tried to warn Lucia and others about what was coming…the kennels where she’d first met Duke when he was in danger of succumbing to the taint himself and had just lost his previous master…the place where Duncan’s watch fire had burned steadily until it, too, a brilliant light in the center of everything, had been extinguished along with him…their hearts broke a little bit more. The chasm between them grew wider. Deeper.

But it was when they reached the royal area, when Alistair went looking for the key that was under a loose rock at the base of a statue so they could get into Cailan’s royal chest, that what last tenuous hold Lucia had on her nerves shattered. The place where the tent had been…where the child she carried had been conceived…she saw it clearly in ghostly visions where naught but splinters remained and fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around her torso and letting out a wail that had less to do with the death of a king and more to do with the mess, pressure, fear and burden the debacle had left behind for her and Alistair.

Like a shot he was by her side, armor clanging loudly in the quiet, chilly air as he sank down next to her, wrapped his arms around her and wept with her for reasons his own. Suddenly it was as if all the bickering, arguing, fighting and tearing asunder of the two Wardens had never occurred. In that heartbreaking moment they became as one, once more, united in grief and purpose like no others could be.

Wynne and Duke didn’t go far, but allowed them their time by moving away to pick through rubble, see if anything else might be recovered from that horrific night. Alistair wanted Cailan’s armor. He and Lucia knew they needed to find Duncan’s shield based on the ask at the end of Cailan’s letter. Neither could recall him carrying anything special. Al knew his surrogate father’s Warden shield on sight and puzzled over the fact that he hadn’t recalled seeing it on the man since he’d returned from Highever with Lucia. Wynne was most curious about the supplies left behind in a chest in the Magi camp and so she warily led Duke in that direction, pleased with what she found to take with them, only having to fend off a couple of blighted wolves in the process.

“Did you…love him?” Alistair asked after some time had passed and the sobs had stopped wracking Lucia’s body.

She half-laughed. “Of course not. Lusted, perhaps, as one might when faced with a man of his appearance. But I knew him maybe two hours out of his entire life. He was kind and he didn’t force me into this, and he did at one point say he thought he could easily have loved me had we been married as originally intended. But beyond that?” Lucia’s eyes met his. “Everything we have to do, the baby, the archdemon, the kingdom…it just feels impossible, and lately you and I have been fighting—Alistair, I’m afraid. I can’t do this alone.”

“I know,” he interrupted with a whisper, “I’m sorry, you’re not alone, Lucia, you’ll never be alone. I’m so sorry, my love.”

She sniffled and looked at him. “Your…love?”

He bowed his head. “I guess we’re both really terrible at using our words.”

“You…love me?”

“I know it might sound strange, considering we haven’t known each other for very long, but I’ve come to…care for you a great deal. I think maybe it’s because we’ve gone through so much together, I don’t know. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Or maybe us talking about having to get married and pretend this child is ours to keep him or her safe is—”

Lucia moved forward and silenced him with a soft, chaste kiss. Their lips met. Lingered. Alistair hummed soft approval. She pulled back and felt heat in her cheeks. Alistair’s gloved hand caressed one of them softly. He looked surprised at first, then he smiled.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I love you, Lucia Cousland. I can’t help it. You make it impossible for me not to. I therefore blame the entirety of my enchantment on you.”

“Then,” she stated with certainty even though her voice trembled as she looked into his eyes, “I finally understand why this all had to happen.” He looked a bit perplexed, so she moved forward and captured his lips again. This time, mouths opened and tongues explored as everything slotted into place for them both.

They could do this.

And if they died trying, then they would do that together, too.


	4. Surprise Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair reveals that he and Cailan weren't quite what everyone thought they were to each other.

Some little time after this series of epiphanies, their companions returned. “I…think we’d better cross to the Tower,” Wynne said in an uncharacteristically defeated tone of voice.

“Yes,” Alistair agreed. “We need to eradicate the darkspawn from that area. I want to complete my revenge on the bastards who thought they’d killed us all.”

“It’s not that,” Wynne replied quietly as they approached the bridge that would lead them to their destination.

Lucia followed her eyes as they reached the bottom of the downslope that put them on the bridge proper. It took a few moments for her to register what she was seeing but when she did, she paled considerably. Alistair brought an arm around her back.

“You don’t have to go,” he stated. “Or I can…blindfold you as we pass, if you wish.”

But Lucia was having none of it. She broke free of him and ran toward the center of bridge, toward…toward… _dear Maker, no_ …only Duke could keep up. When she reached place where the once so very alive man hung, left out in the open air for birds to pick at, for all to see in a way that defiled every belief Andrastians held close…disbelief ebbed away and she saw the spectacle for what it was: the decaying body of their King Cailan Theirin, father of the child she carried. For long moments, all she could do was stare.

Though some time dead, he was so well-preserved. Perhaps the cold air here? What was more, Lucia would swear until her dying day that he had a slight smile on his face. He knew, of that she became certain. Somehow, he _knew_ he’d succeeded. That in spite of his father-in-law’s treachery leading to his own demise, he would win in the end with both Alistair and Lucia. He had gone to his death believing, holding close to his chest the hope that he had sent his country’s future into the night with her body carrying his legacy, and her hand carrying his final commands.

Lucia thought, as apparently did Alistair and Wynne, who finally reached her side and stared up at the sickening sight left by darkspawn sons-of-evil, that this spectacle would undo her completely given what had happened at the burned-out remains of his tent. But to her surprise, it had the opposite effect entirely. He was almost more alive now than ever, a true king’s triumph in spite of insurmountable odds.

She remembered him so clearly in her mind. His hurried, nearly-whispered words.

_“Have you ever lain with a man?”_

How he ran his fingers through her hair. Murmured phrases so softly into her ear as they fell back onto his bed that she could barely understand them for the endearments that they were.

_“Maker’s breath, but you’re beautiful.”_

How it felt when his lips claimed hers. When their bodies moved together. When he took her to places that she’d never fathomed she could go, allowing her to free herself and feel things she wasn’t aware her body was even capable of feeling.

_“That’s it. Trust me. I won’t let you fall. Release for me, my love.”_

Lucia’s eyes snapped open. She turned and looked at Alistair, who had also called her ‘my love’ just a little bit ago, without yet having even told her he loved her.

He looked right back at her and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Maker’s breath,” he breathed as his fingers rose to push some stray strands of raven-black hair behind her ear, “but you’re beautiful.” He sighed as if all tensions were leaving his body at last. “I’m a lucky man.”

_“My brother is a lucky man.”_

She hitched in a breath.

_“Lucia,” Cailan had breathed into her ear as he’d pulled himself out of her body after his second explosive release of his seed inside her. “Love him. Just love him.”_

“Do you know what the strongest force in the universe is?” Alistair asked, drawing her back to the present.

She shook her head, slightly dazed to be coexisting between a past moment and the present one.

“Love,” he said firmly, voice laden with emotion that threatened to drown them both.

“He knew…I don’t understand.” She faltered, confusion swirling in her mind. “You said the same things, you…he…”

“What did he say?” Alistair asked.

“M-my love,” she stammered out. “A-and he…he said ‘Maker’s breath,’ he…” She knew she must look like she was losing her mind, because that’s what it felt like. “He said you were a lucky man.”

He smiled. “Did he tell you to love me? That’s what I would have said to you, had the tables been turned.”

She hitched in a breath. “How did..?”

Alistair clanged down to a sitting position on the bridge and gazed up at Cailan’s body. “He was my brother,” the man finally said as a tear slid down his face. “But he wasn’t my _half_ -brother. We are…were…twins.”

Even Wynne gasped.

“We weren’t raised together. Neither of us was ever told until…” Alistair pulled his gloves from his hands and scrubbed his palms over his face. “Well, Cailan was never told, at least, that’s what Duncan said. He thought he was the elder, born five years before me, and the legitimate heir while I was the bastard resulting from my father’s apparently plentiful dalliances.”

When Alistair didn’t continue, Lucia laid a hand on his armor-plated leg. “Tell me.”

He nodded. Placed a hand over hers. “Just before Eamon and Isolde placed me into the Chantry, when I was at my most out-of-control in Isolde’s eyes because I wouldn’t just lay down and accept her ill treatment of me anymore, that was when I met Duncan. It’s all a rather long story and I’m happy to tell it complete sometime, but suffice it to say that he, in addition to his duties as a Grey Warden recruiter, became sort of a go-between for me and Cailan throughout our childhood years.”

Alistair shook his head as though wanting but not wanting to relieve their past.

“We never exchanged correspondence or any direct contact such as that, but Duncan kept Cailan updated on my progress, told him stories about me. He did the same with me, regaling me with tales of Cailan’s exploits as he felt his way along being a prince, as he stumbled and fell, as he pulled himself back up. His optimism, his willingness to take on what burdens he was given after Maric’s death.”

It was not lost on Lucia how very similar the twins’ paths had been, even if arrived at by vastly different methods.

“Eventually, when Duncan came to steal me away from the Grand Cleric to become a Grey Warden, he confessed the truth about who Cailan and I actually are to each other. To Ferelden.”

“So…you’re both truly Maric’s sons?”

“Oh, yes. We are both Theirins through our father. But Queen Rowan was no more Cailan’s mother than she was mine, and both Eamon and Teagan know that as, I’m sure, does Loghain and by default also probably Anora.” Alistair sighed, pushed himself off the ground to his feet as he re-donned his gloves. “Come, I’ll tell you more as we move toward the tower. I want to be finished here.”

He looked up at Cailan once more. “Forgive us, my king. When we have driven the darkspawn from their holes and bought ourselves some time, we shall return to see you to the Maker.”

Without a word the foursome made their way along the bridge, everyone’s eyes scanning both horizons as they walked. Eventually Alistair picked up his story again.

“Assuming the information Duncan fed me over the six months I was a Grey Warden before… _here_ …happened…was accurate, rather than being born five years apart to two different women, we were born twins to a lover of Maric’s, who was, believe it or not, a Grey Warden.”

“Truly?” Wynne asked as she picked her way along the devastated bridge next to them.

Alistair nodded. “Much like Anora, Rowan had proven herself unable to maintain a child to healthy birth. There were four stillbirths from her by the time our mother – whose identity I don’t know beyond being told she was once a Grey Warden but is no longer – gave birth to twin boys. I was the smaller of the two and born second. We were…what did they call us…fraternal, so we didn’t look exactly alike but are pretty unmistakably related.”

Alistair ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. Lucia reached down and clasped his other one. He threw her a genuine and painfully sweet smile.

“And so we became sort of the heir-and-hidden-spare and as the larger and more robust of us, Cailan was named, christened and presented to the people as Queen Rowan’s and King Maric’s legitimate heir, while I was spirited away by the woman who was our true mother, with strict orders that I be kept as secret as possible. Although that time with my mother didn’t last long, I have been given to understand, which was how I wound up with Eamon.” Alistair sighed. “Duncan hadn’t yet finished telling me the entirety of whatever was left of the truth of our lives by the time…this place…happened, and now with both him and Cailan gone I’m afraid I may never know any more than I already do.”

“Unless you can find someone who knew your mother,” Wynne offered, “or who perhaps worked at the castle at the time.”

“Yes. If any of Maric’s people live still,” Alistair acquiesced.

Lucia was thoughtful. “Is your mother still alive, do you know?”

“I haven’t any idea. If she is, I think it odd that she would not have appeared or presented herself upon Cailan’s coronation nor upon his death, though I’m not really qualified to guess.”

“So you’re saying that the reason you two have so many similar turns of phrase and…so forth…is because you were twins, even though you weren’t raised together and barely knew one another,” Lucia summarized as she tried wrapping her mind around the implications.

“Yes. Duncan used to sometimes remark to me, when we talked of Cailan during my youth, how similar we were, and often I would say something that would catch him off-guard and he’d tell me Cailan said the same things.”

And then without preamble, darkspawn came at them on the bridge front and back and the trio – and their war hound – spent the next several hours doing a lot of killing, trekking through tunnels and ruins and obliterating that which had taken the lives of so very many.

Then it was to the matter of seeing their king to the Maker’s side on as royal a pyre as they could build. Laden with armfuls of salvage, including Cailan’s entire set of armor, they slowly left Ostagar while vowing each of them to never return. Though Duncan’s shield was nowhere to be found, Alistair had some ideas about that which he was simply too tired to share.

Needless to say, by the time they made it back to where they’d pitched camp, none of them could do much more than fall into their bedrolls in exhaustion, in spite of the myriad of questions the rest of their party had been hoping to get answered.


	5. Becoming One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of reuniting with Ser Gilmore, watching Eamon and Isolde's son die and bringing Arl Eamon back from near-death, Lucia starts to realize there might be huge problems with a Grey Warden mage becoming Queen of Ferelden. Alistair to the rescue!

They fought their way through a demon-infested alienage orphanage with a blind Templar as ally. Discovered reasons for illness in the elves that had nothing to do with a genuine plague. Took down a Tevinter slavery ring preying upon the helpless of the slum. Gathered more and more evidence proving Loghain to be not only a traitor, but a criminal.

But it was in returning to her own home that Lucia’s love for Alistair finally found itself rooted in, of all things, the eyes of another man. For as they fought their way into the castle to rescue a missing Chantry Sister and eradicate Howe’s men from her familial home, they encountered the one man she’d wondered about, who had always been so very sweet to her. As children they had played at love, and when Ser Gilmore’s eyes met hers she indeed felt her heart do a flip in her chest. But it wasn’t for the reasons she’d always thought it would be.

It was as Rory rushed to greet her in his stilted, awkward and always cute way, that she felt Alistair stiffen beside her and without even thinking, reached out and grabbed his hand. Before the red-haired knight who was supposed to have become a Grey Warden that fateful night had spoken even one word, Lucia had quietly made it clear that she was no longer available.

And yet without missing a beat he swore himself to her service, to protecting her at all costs as he was sworn to her father to do. It was clear he had always loved her, for they had grown up together as he trained with the rest of her father’s men. Part of Lucia wondered what might have happened if her fellow Grey Warden had been a woman or had been anyone at all other than Alistair the royal bastard, whom she’d unwittingly fallen for while emerging from Flemeth’s hut to find him both shocked and relieved to see that she lived. Without Alistair, would she have still felt those same young, naïve feelings for Rory that she had what seemed like a lifetime ago?

Lucia would never be able to answer that, and she daren’t ask Rory about his feelings for her, not as things stood. As it was, once he joined her group, she had to tell him about her and Alistair and ‘their’ baby, as well as what the end goals and next steps of their campaign were, and why. And when she did, the sweet, kind, gentle and yet fiercely protective Ser Roland Gilmore strolled right up to Alistair near the campfire, bent on one knee and pledged himself in service to the King of Ferelden for the remainder of his days.

* * *

Their quest for the Urn of Sacred Ashes left everyone in quite a state. Zevran hadn’t spoken to her since they’d returned from the temple, angry about a secret of his having been outed in front of her and the others by whoever that ghostly guardian man had been. Alistair had been confronted with his guilt over Duncan’s death and still believing he should have died on the field with him, and Lucia’s motives for fleeing the night Howe attacked were brought into question.

But the goal was all that mattered, right? The pinch of ashes she returned to Redcliffe Castle with, paved the way for a full recovery by the man who’d tried to raise Alistair, but for the interference of a beautiful wife. A woman from Orlais who then went on to make decisions and take actions that had nearly decimated an entire village just because she didn’t want anyone to know their son was a mage, his father included.

Which made Lucia wonder what would happen where she was concerned. As a mage herself, she should have been in the Circle of Magi from the moment her magic manifested. Like Isolde, however, Lucia’s mother had moved the skies and the very mountains themselves to ensure no one found out and therefore that no one took her away. She had been privately tutored by an apostate mage just as Isolde had tried to do for Connor.

Thankfully, Lucia’s tutor had been a kind and gentle soul called Amelyn. Lucia presumed her dead in the attack on her home as well, for she had continued her tutelage well beyond Lucia’s childhood. Fergus had continued holding up their family’s deceit as he’d grown into a man who would one day become patriarch, and on the cusp of her womanhood, when her father sent Fergus ahead to Ostagar and prepared to depart with Arl Howe, Lucia had finally realized how difficult it was going to be to hide it any longer given that Father had left her in charge of the entire castle.

For as a noble daughter, she was expected to marry. But no noble, not even a minor one, would wed a mage. Mages weren’t even supposed to exist outside of a Circle and her many conversations with Wynne during their travels had reinforced her awareness that relationships, never mind marriages and families, were actively discouraged within those walls.

She knew this was why Duncan had come, though whether he’d found out about her on his own or had been contacted by her parents, she would never know with all of them dead. The guise perhaps was in being there to recruit Rory, but Duncan had confessed to her that she had been his first choice. Which meant he had known about her and her magical capabilities before his arrival at Highever.

Her parents had taken care of it all. They knew if she became a Grey Warden, even if the truth of her magic did finally come out it would no longer matter, as Grey Wardens are known to give up their entire histories to become what they become and take any and all who will join whether mage or not. She understood that more now than she ever had in theory, of course.

But if she became Queen of Ferelden? If she bore Cailan’s child? Certainly she could do her best to continue hiding her magic unless she were to go into battle at her king’s side. And in the upcoming battle against the archdemon, no one would be able to ‘not see’ her wielding her staff and throwing freeze blasts and fireballs. But would Cailan’s son or daughter be born with the gift? Introducing magic to the royal bloodline was so heinous a thought it made her feel faint when she tried contemplating it. Thus far she had not broached the subject with Alistair. But as the fallout from Isolde’s actions, which had left her young son dead before Eamon’s cure had been administered, crept across the landscape, Lucia truly wondered if any of this would ever be okay again.

Finally one night, as she sat on the side of the bed in the room Arl Eamon had provided for her, and Alistair prepared to take his leave for the evening in favor of meeting with his one-time benefactor for a much-needed heart-to-heart discussion, Lucia finally brought up the subject.

“I am tainted,” she began, which easily got Al’s attention. “I am a mage.” She looked up at him as he moved to stand in front of her. “I never went to a Circle. I was as Connor. My mother sheltered me. Hired an apostate to train me. I have no idea if this baby will be healthy or if it will be a monster.” She felt her eyes fill with tears as Alistair knelt on one knee before her, armor clanking as always.

“Cailan knew I was a mage, I mean, I walked around with my staff strapped to my back. So did Duncan. If you’re right, and Duncan knew of Cailan’s plan or worse yet, helped him with it…how…I mean…we cannot introduce magic to the royal bloodline, Alistair.” He took her two hands in his. “Mages aren’t allowed to own property, inherit titles, it would be pointless.”

“My darling,” he whispered, squeezing her hands.

“I would presume if we marry and I become Queen, that we would need to secure the bloodline with yet more children to rid Ferelden of this uncertainty and civil war when their kings go to the Maker, but what of these children? _Both_ of us are tainted. Will they be darkspawn creatures? Controlled by the next archdemon to reach the surface? Will they be healthy but have magic in their blood? Royals with _magic_? Worse,” and she was babbling in near hysterics now, “will they be darkspawn _and_ mages? Can you imagine? Our children being…emissaries?”

“All right, all right,” Alistair chided gently. “Enough of that.” He pulled her to her feet, reeled her in. She made a face. “What?”

“Your armor is so…hard. Could we not…I don’t know…hug each other in _clothing_? I don’t fancy metal.”

He laughed, blushed, released her and backed slowly away. Before she knew exactly what was happening he began unfastening his armor so slowly that Lucia had some vague notion that he was doing so on purpose, even as heat began to build inside her with every piece of it that was removed from his person and placed gently on the nearby desk.

Gone was the goofy grin. His eyes darkened. His face…she’d never seen that look before and it shot _desire_ straight to her womanhood. “You know, my love,” he stated in a clear, calm, steady and self-assured voice, “there is nothing so desirable to a man than reading in a woman’s eyes how much she wants him.”

Her face flushed at once, drawing a small gasp of surprise from her lips as he slipped both boots from his feet. It was when he advanced upon her, however, that his voice took on a deep timber and strong cadence that she’d never heard from him before.

“I got used to acting stupid so people wouldn’t guess at my true identity in spite of my physical similarities to Cailan,” he confessed as his right hand found her waist and his left caressed her cheek, traced her jawline, stroked her hair. “But I’m not really stupid, and neither was my brother.” He moved a step closer and now their bodies were only a hair’s breadth apart. “If Cailan chose a mage to carry on the Theirin line, it was not an action born of desperation, but of purpose.”

“But _what_ purpose? You saw how Arl Eamon’s only child being a mage tore his family apart, including the death of a little boy! How can we ignore this?”

“Because as the King and Queen, _we_ can change the laws. And thank Andraste, we aren’t Isolde. I don’t believe we can fight the entire Chantry as an establishment, but the Chantry and the Templars and the Circle do not supersede the monarchy.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that while we may be in for the fight of our lives with the reigning religious order if it turns out that one of our children is a mage, we will do as we have always done, and turn what traps us into what frees us all.” He grinned wickedly. “After all, I know an awful lot of their dirty secrets, which is probably why the Grand Cleric didn’t want me to go.”

For the first time Lucia felt her heart become lighter, but before she could contemplate the wisdom and logic Alistair had just enveloped her in, their mouths smashed together. And in those moments when skin became bared, when truths were whispered and shared, when love was stated and declared, the future King and Queen of Ferelden became one for the very first time.


	6. Swooping is Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucia and Alistair find Duncan's shield. They also discover what was so special about it to begin with.

No one knew exactly when it had happened. Sometime over the next two weeks, while they waited for nobles to arrive in Denerim for the landsmeet Arl Eamon had called, and while Lucia, Sten, Alistair and Zevran eradicated Howe and his sycophants from existence, Morrigan disappeared. Despite their best efforts, no trace of her had ever been found, and Lucia could not help but feel a combination of hurt, guilty and curious.

Flemeth had sent her daughter with them from the very beginning, after saving their lives. Morrigan had claimed it was to be allowed to experience the outside world, then discovered Flemeth would be using her body as a vessel to carry her forward once her own old lady body had given out. That she would, in essence, steal Morrigan’s from her.

But Lucia had not only found this a preposterous notion, she had also felt beholden to Flemeth for her very life. For had the Witch of the Wilds not plucked her and Alistair from the top of the tower, and then used her apparently considerable magical abilities to restore them both to complete health, there would be _no_ Grey Wardens in Ferelden. No child of Cailan. No nothing except Loghain and Anora taking over for good before the Blight destroyed them entirely.

Alistair had long suspected that Flemeth had sent Morrigan with them for some specific reason that he never was able to identify. Lucia had even told him she thought he was right, but they’d needed the help and Morrigan was a powerful mage.

Yet now, Lucia wondered if refusing to kill Flemeth had cost Morrigan her life. Morrigan, who had become friends with her. Even called her a sister. Confided things to her that Lucia knew she’d never confided to another. Had her own loyalty to her savior cost a sister everything? Guilt ate away at her at the thought. Yet it seemed the Maker was not content to allow her to wallow in it, for no sooner had Morrigan disappeared than they found Duncan’s shield at last.

It was as they snuck their way through the royal palace in Denerim searching for yet more dirt to bring against Loghain and Anora at the Landsmeet that they found the Grey Warden vault, broke in and began searching it top to bottom.

And there it was. Lucia didn’t know at first what she had found, but when she pulled it from a hidden place – a sheer accident that she’d even seen it thanks to a glint of light from somewhere unknown – she’d been able to feel that it was somehow different from any other shield she’d handled.

“That’s it!” Alistair cried from across the armory. “That’s Duncan’s shield!”

The two immediately set about inspecting it front and back. When it became clear that whatever reason Cailan wanted them to find it was not going to become immediately obvious, they even attempted to take the shield apart, to see if the secret had to do with its construction. Yet try as they might, nothing presented itself. They spirited the shield out of the palace after nearly getting caught by the palace guard and returned to contemplating it one night in camp during their overnight watch.

Seated at the campfire, which Al was in the process of restocking with wood that Sten and Oghren had chopped for them the previous day, Lucia looked to her right, where Alistair had propped the shield up against one of the benches Sten had created from a felled tree. At this angle, and with the flickering of flames as they leapt higher after Al added three more logs and then began stoking it all, the griffon on the face of the shield seemed different somehow.

She knew the illusion of the griffon moving, fluttering its wings, was nothing more than firelight’s shadows playing tricks on her tired mind. And yet the more she stared at the insignia representing the Wardens’ heyday, the more convinced she became that the thing was actually coming to life.

And as she watched, and Alistair approached, it _did_.

He yelped and she shot to her feet as the griffon peeled itself away from the shield and flew to directly in front of her and Al, who was now standing right next to her. “Am I going mad?” Alistair whispered. “Or are you seeing this, too?”

“I see it, too,” she replied, reminded of how she and Levi had been able to see past events at Soldier’s Peak, and Levi had thought himself mad at first as well.

The griffon glowed silvery-white and fluttered around and around them. Then it flew high up into the air and without warning, divebombed them, forcing them both to duck.

“Swooping! Bad!” Alistair cried out, waking half their companions from their sleeps.

Soon one and all had awakened, including Bodahn and Sandal, who got one look at the little flying griffon image and squealed, “En _chant_ ment!”

Which was when Lucia and Alistair realized at the exact same moment what was going on.

“Duncan’s shield,” Alistair began.

“Was enchanted,” Lucia finished.

“But why?” Wynne asked as she smoothed her hair back into the characteristic ponytail high on the back of her head. “And how?”

The tiny griffon made its way back to the shield, pecked at it a few times with its beak, and then swooped low to the ground until it reached their camp’s single entrance, which was a wide dirt path that had easily accommodated their carts and wagons. It appeared to be leaving along the path as it curved to the left out of view, but then it returned, flew so fast past Al’s and Lucia’s faces that their hair fluttered in the resulting breeze, and flattened itself back into the front of the shield like the drawing it had been, without any indication that it’d ever been anything else.

For long moments the group members stole glances at the shield, at each other, at the sky, each wondering if they’d shared some madness or if that had all just really happened. It was Sandal who broke the moment as he ran in his awkward way up to the shield. He breathed, “Shiny!” as he touched the blue griffon and his finger seemed to fuse to the drawing, which began emanating a blue glow that first surrounded the shield and then Sandal himself while Bodahn frantically called out his boy’s name in fear.

Sandal’s voice was heard, though much deeper than usual, saying, “Enchantment,” as he quite literally transformed before their very eyes from a strange little dwarven savant to a gigantic silver-blue griffon that stood at least twelve feet tall. Alistair and Lucia looked up and up and up until it finally stopped glowing, solidified and looked back down at them both. Bright gold eyes studied them carefully while both Wardens held their breath.

“Is this real?” Zevran asked from somewhere nearby, completely in awe. “Sandal was…is…a griffon?”

“They survive?” Leliana chimed in, wonderment tinging her lilting voice. “He’s beautiful.”

Sandal the Griffon ducked his head down at the Wardens and then seemed to nod toward his own back.

“Is he…” Alistair stumbled over his words. “Does he want us to mount him? _Ride_ him?”

Wynne chimed in, “In our Circle studies, we learned that the griffons of old chose their riders. That no one but the Warden the griffon chose could ever become its companion. Could ever be astride it.”

“So which of us does he want?” Lucia asked. Then it dawned on her. “Alistair, he’s yours.”

“What? Where’d you get that from?”

“He was on Duncan’s shield. Cailan’s letter was addressed to _you_ , not to both of us or to me.”

“Cailan’s letter?” Rory queried, since Lucia and Alistair had never told anyone about it.

“He wrote you a letter?” Wynne asked at nearly the same moment.

“Of course,” Lucia continued as though no one else had spoken. “Bodahn, you told me early on when we were first getting to know each other that you’d found Sandal abandoned in the Deep Roads while you were in the process of leaving for the surface.”

“That’s right,” Bodahn confirmed, still a bit in shock as he gazed up at the boy-no-longer who now sported feathers instead of skin.

“The only people other than dwarves who brave the Deep Roads are Wardens,” Alistair said. Then his brain seemed to catch up to his words. His eyes widened. “You think a Grey Warden did this. Enchanted Sandal who was a griffon, into a dwarf, and made the shield its key.”

“Not just any Grey Warden,” Lucia stated as she looked Sandal in the eye. “I think Duncan had this done, maybe with a group of Wardens, maybe on his own. If he truly had been planning all of what’s happened with Cailan on the chance that Loghain would betray them, then it makes sense that Cailan’s final command would be to find Duncan’s shield. There’s no way he’d have known about this without Duncan telling him.”

“So was I not supposed to find him?” Bodahn asked a touch sadly.

“No,” Alistair answered quickly as it all began coming together for him. “I think Sandal was purposely placed into your path, and I think it was Duncan who did it.”

“Took baby Sandal there, the _enchanted_ baby Sandal, and left him where I could find him?” Bodahn asked.

“Yes,” Lucia replied. “If Duncan had lived, he would simply at some point have stepped in and shown us who and what Sandal truly was. As it is, because he didn’t survive Ostagar, we didn’t and couldn’t know until we’d found the shield. The key to returning Sandal to his rightful form.”

“Do you think he’s the last one?” Oghren asked as Sten, standing beside him, simply stared wide-eyed at the spectacle before them.

“I hope not,” Alistair stated, reaching out and touching one of the griffon’s feathered legs. The creature made a strange clicking sound deep in his throat and then, for lack of a better word, began to purr as Alistair stroked his leg.

“He’s definitely yours, Alistair,” Wynne noted.

In a combination of admiration and disbelief, Alistair asked the griffon, “Well, boy? What about it? Are there more of you somewhere?”

Sandal laid down in a roosting position and pulled his left wing forward. After contemplating logistics for a few moments, Alistair ensured his sword and Duncan’s shield were secured to his back, took a running leap, banked off the griffon’s wing and slid his legs in one smooth motion over the narrow part of its back just behind the wings.

Rising to his full height, Griffon Sandal screeched into the night, opened his wings wide and with a great flapping that sounded like thunder, took off into the skies. Everyone watched in fascination as the griffon, with Alistair astride, dove and climbed with gigantic wings flapping and flapping, feathers shimmering in the light of the Moon. At one point it dove toward Lucia, who was held in place only because Sten acted fast and planted his hands on her shoulders to keep her from being swept away in its wake.

As Sandal sailed low to the ground and then upturned to avoid the forest, they all heard Alistair cry, “That’s why swooping is bad!”

Lucia and Wynne burst out laughing and hugged each other in joy as Al and Sandal disappeared against the rising dawn. Things had just taken a turn that none had expected.

For the griffons…lived.


	7. Of Absence, Death and Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Alistair, his new griffon and Wynne are away, Lucia goes about the day-to-day with their companions, discovering new ways to enjoy each of them, laugh with them, become exasperated by them...until one perfectly normal day while everyone is tasked with the most mundane and boring things that are always quite necessary, a sudden attack by Loghain's men leaves them short one man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Non-Canon Character Death in this chapter (secondary/minor character)
> 
> Note: I made some tweaks to this chapter so while the content is still leading to the same occurrences, it reads a bit better than before. :-)

Alistair had been gone, with Sandal the Griffon and Wynne, for more than a week. Nobody in the camp had any idea when they’d return. Lucia led several different types of missions in the interim, doing her best to keep her mind off the missing future king, a mage who was a friend and mentor second only to her own mother, and a big, huge formerly extinct bird creature she’d once called a dwarf.

She conceded to herself that her life was very odd indeed.

As the days passed and their battles continued, she at last felt comfortable with Zevran once more, who apologized for being angry with her since she’d done nothing wrong at the Temple of the Sacred Ashes except choose him as part of the team that infiltrated it. He finally told her the story of what had happened prior to him taking Loghain and Howe up on the job to kill the last two Grey Wardens of Ferelden; the devastating events that the Guardian had referred to as they all stood there being questioned about their feelings on life choices.

Lucia was shocked when Zev confessed that he’d just wanted to die and had assumed that would be easily accomplished by her, Alistair or both. She was even more surprised, however, to hear that as far as he was concerned, not only did he now no longer wish to die, but he was completely beholden to her for that being the case. It was in those longs talks together while patrolling the camp or headed from one place to another to continue their recruiting efforts and helping people, that Lucia began to utterly understand what it meant to be a leader.

So focused had she been on the mission to draw on centuries-old Grey Warden treaties, on what had happened with and to Cailan, on the child she carried and what that meant, on Alistair, that she hadn’t realized what else had been happening along the way. Sten told her that he’d originally thought her callow. That he now realized he’d been wrong. He called her his _kadan_. She barely knew what to say.

Duke, the Mabari she’d met at Ostagar, was like one of her limbs these days. He wouldn’t leave her alone any more than she wanted to go anywhere without him. She wondered what he would think of things once they lived in the palace. Wondered if he would be happy. Missed her own Mabari but realized that the spirit of the one who’d died helping her and Duncan escape Highever safely, lived on in faithful and loyal Duke.

After the mess in the Deep Roads, Oghren the Grumpy, as she’d taken to calling him in the privacy of her mind, slowly opened up to her and at one point she saw, almost visibly, when he tipped over from following her because he had nothing better to do and was also interested in suicide-by-monster, plus could get his hands on his favorite drinks more easily in her company, to being so fiercely protective of her and their companions that he once challenged ten of Loghain’s soldiers by himself as they crept a little too close to the Wardens’ camp for comfort. He’d already killed the lot of them, still in Berserker mode, when they’d all come running to help. He might never say so with his words but he was among the most committed these days and fought like his very life depended on it, rather than treating it like something interesting to do between bouts of drinking as he had before.

Bodahn fretted and fussed and took over the parent and grandparent role during Wynne’s absence. He worked himself relentlessly to be sure their group had everything they needed in terms of food and drink and supplies, and she grew much fonder of him every day, even going so far as to sit and talk with him for hours in the evenings sometimes, just listening to his stories. Inevitably many of the others would find their way into the storytelling circle and they’d all enjoy the tales, laughter and tears together. Though Bodahn missed the boy that had once been Sandal, he was also proud to know that it’d been _he_ who’d kept what they all presumed to be the last griffon anywhere, alive all these years. He walked a little bit taller these days in spite of Sandal-the-dwarf’s transformation and absence.

Even Shale, who had barely tolerated Lucia and the rest of the squishy creatures in their band early on, was kinder and gentler these days…in her own golem manner. Once when the road was long, winding and uphill most of the way between travel points, and Lucia grew weary more quickly as the pregnancy advanced, Shale offered to carry her. Mindful of not wanting to use her as her previous master had done, Lucia had declined with gratitude, then some little time later had fainted, only to wake up hours later to discover that Shale had indeed carried her the rest of the way to where Sten decided they would camp. Shale told her never to speak of it, especially the parts Leliana added about Shale’s gentleness as she cradled the Warden in her arms, but Lucia could tell that Shale was pleased to have been so important to help advance them despite Lucia’s increasingly delicate condition.

Leliana and Lucia had become fast friends, with Leliana wishing to know everything that was happening surrounding the child Lucia carried. The reason for her curiosity, she confessed, was that since she only really cared for women, she would most likely never bear children of her own. Lucia therefore brought Leliana every step of the way through it with her, and in their down time listened to the bard’s amazing tales and songs alongside their companions, who never complained when music came forth from she and her lute. Lucia even went so far as to learn a couple of the more soothing songs that Leliana thought the baby might like to hear after he or she was born. Her singing voice wasn’t nearly as pretty as Leliana’s, but the former chantry sister assured her it was perfectly adequate for a doting mother.

And then there was Rory. Dear, sweet, loyal-as-a-Mabari Rory, who amusingly had figured out how to stay as close to Lucia throughout their travels as he possibly could without getting so close as to cause Alistair to scowl in his general direction for the millionth time. Rory somehow managed to never be intrusive, yet always there the very second Lucia or one of the others needed anything. Alistair had sworn the former knight on his life to keep Lucia and the child safe during his current necessary absence, though, which told Lucia all she needed to know about Alistair’s true feelings toward her childhood crush.

The trip they were embarking on, well, Alistair couldn’t really explain to anyone because it all seemed to be Griffon Sandal’s idea. That left all of them disconcerted, but at least Wynne was with him to watch over him and his new flying companion while everyone else could keep each other alive and well and continue with the ground missions.

The most interesting thing about the whole mess of guys-who-had-a-thing-for-powerful-and-beautiful-women – Leliana’s words – was that Rory had been competing with Zevran, of all people, during Alistair’s absence. Not for anything so fairy tale-like as Lucia’s hand, since everyone understood she was beyond spoken for at this point, but almost as if the two were worried that they would no longer be necessary if they didn’t become the single most important man to her outside of her betrothed. Which of them would be the first to get a fire going? Who would gather the most kindling and logs? Who would chop up the most trees? Who would cook, which would clean up, who would keep her company at all hours, so she was never left defenseless or alone? Who would ensure that her humors were always positive, that she never sorrowed for lack of the man she loved except perhaps in the solitude of her tent where neither of them would go anyway?

The attention was often exasperating, but as Lucia mused upon the two men competing yet again one early morn, this time over who would wash the team’s various articles of clothing in a nearby stream, she had no way of knowing that before the sun had set on that day one of those men would be dead and, if not for the other, such would also have become the fate of both her and Cailan’s heir.

For _they_ knew.

Somehow, Loghain had discovered her secret and while Leliana mended clothing, Rory washed their clothes at the stream, Zevran hunted and fished, Sten chopped wood and Oghren helped Lucia plot the best route through the Eastern Brecilian forest to search for some maleficarum that needed slaying on behalf of the Mages’ Collective, Duke kept watch at the camp’s main entrance.

It all began with a whimper and ended with a bang.

Not one of them sent out the alert call they’d devised to warn each other long ago. Lucia wasn’t certain where Shale was or what she was doing when everything started happening, but before long the ground shook and she immediately recognized the telltale signs of her golem companion running fast and hard in her direction at the same time as Duke whimpered and then turned his nose to the sky and howled. A banshee cry was then unleased upon their forest camp the likes of which made her blood curdle.

For the voice had been Rory’s. That meant whatever was happening was near the stream.

Those in the camp proper had their weapons in-hand faster than Lucia could blink. Her heart was racing as she followed Leliana and the others toward Rory’s battle cries. They heard the clanking of swords and shields and suddenly she caught a blurry figure somersaulting from the edge of the wood bordering the stream and there was Zevran, both daggers firmly implanted in a soldier’s upper back just as he tried to slice Rory in half. The man crumpled at Rory’s feet while Rory swung his massive sword around and loosed another soldier’s head from his body. Zev leapt into the air with all the grace of a cat and swung out a double-sweep with his two fire-enchanted daggers that took yet another man’s head off.

There were at least a dozen of the bastards throughout the woods and stream, and Lucia quickly froze the section of water where five of them were battling Rory, Sten and Oghren. Leliana’s arrows whizzed straight and true with poisoned tips, felling two soldiers in rapid succession and wounding three more. Lucia turned a soldier whose sword was far too close to Duke’s back for her liking into a statue of ice, and the Mabari raced to Zevran’s side to help him with three men he was fending off. Shale smashed the frozen soldier, turned and punched another in his face, effectively rearranging it to land somewhere near the back of his skull.

Duke howled long and loud as yet another wave of soldiers appeared like insects pouring forth from between trees and rocks. When one of them yelled, “Don’t kill the bitch, he wants the whelp alive!” Lucia went cold all over, in that moment realizing the reason for the ambush.

In the blink of an eye a massive Qunari soldier with a greatsword that rivaled Sten’s in length, ran it straight through Rory’s gut. Another soldier caught Zevran’s foot as he twirled mid-air to slice at an enemy who was a hair’s breadth from grabbing Lucia around the neck. Zev managed to tuck, roll and come to his feet, where he landed chest-to-chest with her as he stabbed around her with both hands in a kind of gruesome bloody hug, to fell her would-be kidnapper by puncturing both sides of his neck. Their eyes met, he winked and smirked, and the two turned to see Rory battling two more soldiers.

Zevran raced toward them with a burst of speed that took Lucia’s breath away. She froze the second one, which Sten then smashed, while Shale, Leliana and Oghren felled four men further upstream. Zev knocked the man closest to Rory off-balance by kicking at the backs of his knees. The soldier was cut down by Rory’s sword as he fell. But Zevran also fell, the soldier’s shield hitting his head so hard from his blindside as the man fell that he was unconscious before hitting the stream.

It was as if she had watched her two vying protectors fall in slow motion, Rory’s last heroic deed accomplished by saving Zevran’s life as well as hers. Because he’d continued fighting rather than sought healing, he’d lost too much blood and guts via the wound he’d sustained and was dead before he’d even hit the water. Zev had gone down like a boneless ragdoll. Lucia was so frightened and so angry that she cast the Hand of Winter spell without even thinking about it, freezing everything and everyone in a circle more than seven meters out from where she stood on the bank of the stream.

Only then did she realize what she’d done, and frantically went from companion to companion reversing the spell, whilst leaving it set upon the soldiers. It was as she reversed it on Rory that she realized he was already gone, the gaping hole in his armor and his chest allowing for no doubt to linger. Tears streaming down her face while Sten and Shale made short work of shattering Loghain’s men, Lucia reversed Hand of Winter on Zevran, only to realize he’d fallen face-first into the stream to begin with and was no longer breathing even after thawing out.

With a loud cry of anguish – surely she couldn’t lose _two_ of them at the same time, _no_! – she pulled him from the stream, laid him out flat on the bank and for the first time in her young life, cast a healing spell that Wynne had taught her, but with her own twists. Simultaneously she summoned a Spell Wisp and Spell Might in rapid succession, followed by a move she didn’t have a name for but simply felt right. She placed her hands palm-flat on Zevran’s chest and called forth every ounce of mana she could muster from the world around her. Her ears buzzed so loudly she couldn’t hear the words being shouted by her friends. There was no hope for Rory, as the stream had turned red with his blood, but Lucia _would not lose another_.

She felt warmth before she saw the glow, both sensations rising from where her hands remained on Zev. Power unlike she had ever experienced coursed through her and Lucia suddenly felt as if she could take on the entire darkspawn army alone. In the same moments she knew that the power was not entirely her own and felt for certain that she was working with the child inside her to save her favorite elf’s life.

Without really knowing why she was doing so, Lucia suddenly lifted Zev from his back to his left side and hit him hard with her fist multiple times between his shoulder blades. Two blinks later he was coughing up water, gagging, choking, trying desperately to drag breath into his body. The last thing Lucia saw as her power faded and the edges of her vision crept away into an inky darkness, were Zevran’s crystal brown eyes locking with hers.

The look on his face as their companions gathered round them both was one of pure disbelief. Shock, even. She was suddenly reminded of when he had lain on the ground at her feet, at her mercy, ankles and wrists bound with rope, injured by her own hand, looking up at her with eyes that reminded her at the time of a frightened and yet defiant child’s. He’d looked so lost. So vulnerable. So desperately in need of someone – _anyone_ – to care. And it had hit Lucia in every bone of her body…not just right now about Zev, but right now about _all_ of them.

She loved each of these misfits in their own special and unique way. Valued them for who and what they were. Depended on them. How she would pass the time without Rory, the only constant left from her before-Warden life, any longer was a pain that threatened to tear her chest in two. But even so as the void claimed her, Lucia smiled faintly. Rory would have wanted nothing more or less than to go down saving the lives of those he’d sworn to protect. And given what Lucia had just experienced in saving Zevran, she knew with certainty in her very center that it had all been in the hands of the Maker from the very beginning…and that the child within her womb was something special indeed.

In fact, Lucia pondered as she slipped unconscious, it might be Cailan’s child that would save them all.


	8. The Campfire Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Wynne return, exhausted from their unexpected trip with Sandal-the-Griffon. But it's later, as Lucia continues to mourn Rory's death, that another secret is revealed...one that threatens to upend Zevran's world in ways he could never have imagined.

By the time a road-weary Alistair and worn-out Wynne arrived back at camp – without the griffon – Rory had been burned on pyre three days past, Zevran was finally able to breathe without his chest rattling and the group was contemplating their next move as Lucia bickered with Oghren about just how far she was capable of walking during daylight hours, thankyouverymuch.

Duke’s sharp barks and then yips of happiness had Lucia sprinting across the entire breadth of the camp and into her Alistair’s arms, knocking him so far off-balance that he landed on his rump with a clang-thump, her straddling his thighs and kissing his laughing mouth.

When the Mabari made to jump onto Wynne, she tiredly smiled and kept him from doing so. “I needn’t be knocked to the ground to know I’m appreciated, young man,” she admonished gently, and Duke instead nuzzled her with his gigantic head.

Everyone crowded around – eventually Alistair realized they had an amused and eye-rolling audience – peppering the duo with questions as to where they’d gone, what they’d done and what had happened to Sandal.

Lucia blushed furiously as she extricated herself from Al and helped him to his feet. “If I may,” he said, planting an extra kiss on her cheek, “I’m afraid that I smell extremely bad and am about to drop from exhaustion. May we rest and then all questions be answered?”

“Of course,” Lucia nodded at him and then Wynne. “Our tent is there,” she pointed beyond to where she had been sleeping this past fortnight.

Only Alistair frowned instead of heading for the tent. He turned round in a circle and then downright scowled. “Where’s Ser Gilmore?”

Tears sprang to Lucia’s eyes. Alistair’s face fell from annoyance to sorrow. He gathered her into his arms as the tears fell. “Oh, my dear,” he said softly, arms coming round her. “I am sorry, so sorry. You must tell me all when I wake.”

She nodded against his armor and backed away. Al dragged himself to their tent and Wynne went slowly to the one Leliana had been using. Once the two had disappeared inside their separate places, Lucia went to sit on one of the logs Sten and Shale had placed round the campfire. The nights were growing colder, and it was nearing dusk. But it was mention of Rory that had sent an extra shiver through her slim frame. She was happier than happy that Wynne and Al had returned but could not escape the gaping maw of Rory’s absence.

He had been ever-present in her life for _most_ of her life, and his absence tore at her alongside that of her mother, her father and – for all she knew – Fergus, whom she also had little choice but to presume dead since she’d heard naught of him since Cailan’s mention. Rory had been just as much a family member as Fergus and to think that she literally was the only survivor of her family’s home other than a chantry sister weighed heavily to the point where she didn’t feel as if she’d ever be able to stand upright again.

Soon, as had become the case rather frequently since she’d magically and still inexplicably brought him back from death, Zevran seated himself on the ground next to her, arms around the one knee that was raised, leaning back against the bark-stripped log for comfort.

“Tell me if you would, my dear Grey Warden,” he lilted in the voice Lucia had begun to wonder how she would live without once all of this business was concluded and Zevran went on to his next adventure, “what was Ser Gilmore to you?”

She wasn’t exactly surprised by the question, though she _was_ surprised he’d not asked sooner. A momentary flash of annoyance gave way to a desperate need to tell someone – _any_ one – about him and their years growing up together. Above all, she didn’t want Rory forgotten any more than she wanted that for her parents, their servants, the rest of the knights…everyone she’d lost.

“We were exactly the same age,” she began, mind traveling back in time. “Our birthdays were three days apart. We grew up together at Highever for the latter half of our childhood.”

Zevran frowned. “I’m afraid this does not make sense to me. How?”

She smiled. “When Rory reached twelve years he was sworn to my father’s service as a minor noble, by his father, Roderick the Second. Rory was, you see, Roderick the Third. He trained for six years in service and had seen two battles during that time, plus many more since being fully knighted into my father’s service.”

She sighed as she smiled, remembering their youthful antics.

“Though he was of lesser nobility and would never have been permitted my hand in marriage, we knew naught of such things at the time and played at love, as children,” she confessed. “We made each other blush, passed each other notes, whispered together, stole bits of time here and there in the shadows, giggling when we heard our elders looking for us. Nan used to admonish us and encourage us all at the same time. She was Fergus’s and my nanny for many years and then, when we outgrew her, she took over the kitchens and was a holy terror.”

Zevran smiled, closing his eyes and relaxing further back into the log behind him.

“There was this once when he’d snuck away from his chores. He was supposed to be grooming the horses and I was stuck studying Canticle of Erudition.”

Opening one eye and looking up at her, Zev asked, “Which one is that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Archon Hessarian himself supposedly wrote it. It’s dreadfully morbid. We’re all born bad and have to atone for what none of us did. That sort of thing.”

He chuckled.

“Anyway, I told my tutor I needed to relieve myself, and Rory spotted me when I escaped outside through a servants’ passage behind my rooms. We ran back to the stables, where I helped him groom the horses in his charge. We were done so quickly that we went to sit by the stream, and…” She began to chuckle, then laughed out loud. “He’d tried to memorize a poem to provide a romantic interlude. But though my Rory was a smart one, he just was not a man of words. He had no inflection in his voice and oh, dear!” Lucia couldn’t help but laugh even harder at the memory.

“I know something of Antivan poetry,” Zevran offered. “Though I doubt he would have known any of those, especially given their…bawdy nature.”

Lucia’s even heartier laugh rang throughout the camp. “Ah, no, it wasn’t bawdy. At fifteen I don’t know that either of us had any knowledge of what love meant other than stolen, chaste kisses and flames upon our cheeks if our fingers accidentally touched.”

Zevran sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know that I was ever so innocent and quite honestly I know as much of love as I do of wielding magic.” He shrugged. “Perhaps as an infant there was an innocence and love present. There were three elven whores that had a hand in my raising, and they used to speak poetry and sing songs from time to time. I have very few memories of this, of course, but a…latent memory still lingers, as it were.”

“You know,” Lucia brightened, “my wet nurse was elven and used to sing Dalish songs to me, and even recited some of what I imagine now was probably their poetry, or perhaps their stories in a sort of chant form. You see, I was born at a time when men were scarce in Highever, as so many had been lost in the war with Orlais and the children that had been left behind were not yet old enough to marry and produce children of their own.”

Sitting up a little straighter, Zevran listened with great interest. That a noble of such renown, a future queen, had been nursed by a Dalish elf, was interesting to him indeed.

“Thus there were very few human women suckling babes, and it was difficult for my mother to find a wet nurse until this elf quite literally just showed up at the castle asking for work. She was heavy with milk and explained that she had birthed a half-human and half-elven child who’d died shortly thereafter.”

“She was mother to mixed child?”

“So I understood later during our long conversations, yes. While highly unusual, my mother was desperate, so this elf nursed me for three years and when it became apparent that my mother was going to bear no further children, the woman left our employ.”

“Ah, such a shame.”

“Oh, but two years later, when I was almost six years, she returned. She had been…ill-handled by the master she’d gone to after leaving us and left for dead in a ditch near our lands. One of my father’s knights recognized her and brought her to us. We nursed her back to health, and she remained there with us still when Howe attacked my family.”

“So she is now gone?”

“You know, Zev, I don’t honestly know whether she survived. You know as well as I that when we returned there were no bodies in the castle, so if she had been killed she’d also been disposed of like everyone else. I never…” Her voice broke. “I never thought to ask Rory if she had been one of those dragged away or mercilessly murdered by Howe’s men that fateful day.”

Zevran nodded solemnly, recalling the extremely difficult day they’d taken back the Cousland family castle, and the even more difficult days when, bit by bit, Ser Gilmore dribbled out the tale of the awful hours and days during which he had suffered so terribly alongside his comrades at the hands of Arl Howe’s monsters.

Lucia worked to calm herself, continuing in a shaky voice. “She became a _confidante_ to me. I trusted her. She said it was because we had bonded as she nursed me, and lamented that though she had discovered in the past year that her son lived still, there was nothing she could do to rescue him from the life he had been sold into.”

“She had been lied to? That’s so sad,” Zev stated quietly.

“I agree.” Lucia shook her head. “That was when I truly began to see how elves were treated, even within my own home. Nan was awful to our kitchen elves, and after much tongue-lashing on my part she became moderately better. But still, the day before Howe attacked she still spoke awfully to them.”

“I think we elves are used to such things to the point where unless you are of the Dalish, we don’t even notice anymore.”

“Now _that_ is sad.”

“What happened next with your wet nurse? Did she talk more of her child?”

Nodding, Lucia picked up her tale. “She’d been lied to about her child dying, just so he could be sold into slavery. She imagined that if he was told anything at all about her, it was probably also that she had died, perhaps during childbirth.” Lucia shook her head. “Up until the day of the attack I could never convince our staff to treat our elven servants with the same respect they’d treat human ones. They bad-mouthed them always, implying they weren’t smart, when I knew differently because I talked with them and even taught some of them to read and write.” She sighed loudly. “Whenever Zarina would overhear anyone speaking that way, she would flinch and grow very sad indeed.”

Lucia didn’t notice at first, how Zevran’s normally tanned complexion had gone at least three shades lighter when she’d said her former wet nurse’s name. Didn’t realize how his jaw had dropped open slightly, nor how he was staring at her.

“I often found her crying and when I asked what was wrong, she would simply hold me and tell me that though she loved me very much, she often wished I was her little boy.” Lucia smiled. “I always told her she could pretend if she wanted. Sometimes I would just lay in her arms while she rocked me, tracing the tattoo on her face.”

Swallowing hard, Zevran asked, “What did the vallaslin look like?”

Still unaware of his demeanor, Lucia closed her eyes and pictured Zarina’s face. “Oh, it was intricate. The lines that made it were so very fine, and partway between brown and black. It was rather like the constellation Fervenial, actually.”

“The Oak,” Zev whispered.

“Mmhmm. The branches formed through her eyebrows and fanned out to either side of both eyes. The top of the tree was above on her forehead, and the entirety of the tree’s trunk traveled down her nose and chin, and down to the middle of her neck.” Only then, when she heard movement, did Lucia open her eyes and look at Zev. His face was as white as their tents. His eyes were wide. He barely seemed able to breathe as he rose unceremoniously to his feet, stumbled and very nearly fell backwards over the log. She barely managed to catch him, but he did manage to remain sitting upright on the log, her hand grasping his forearm tightly. “What…Zev, are you okay?”

He turned a shocked face to her, breath coming in short gasps. “I was told she…I…”

“Zevran,” Lucia whispered as though trying to calm a spooked halla, “what’s wrong?”

He swallowed hard and she was shocked to see his eyes fill with tears. “I think your wet nurse…was my mother.”

* * *

Alistair stared at Zevran for long moments, then at Lucia, then back at Zevran again. He was standing in his underclothes, hair still wet from the cold wash he’d taken in the stream that barely a week earlier had run red with Rory’s blood.

“Let me get the straight,” the future king said as he ran a hand through his hair, making it all stand on end. “You are mixed blood, elf and human,” he said, pointing at Zev.

“Yes.”

“But that makes no sense,” Alistair countered. “The child of an elf and a human always looks human. I recall very clearly this conversation being had in Arl Eamon’s castle when I was very young, although I have no idea why. But they even said that if an elf-blooded had a child with an elf, it would still look human.”

“That’s true,” Wynne chimed in. “This was a lively oft-undertaken discussion in the Circle by Enchanter Soralle when the subject of elven inequality outside the Circle was broached. Some of our scholars had researched the matter quite thoroughly and discovered that two elf-blooded are unable to have an elven child because elf-blooded have no elf genetics.”

“Yes, I recall hearing stories of this as well,” Zevran countered, “but it has also been said that elven reproduction has much more to do with magic than it does with whatever it is that passes blue eyes from parent to child, or pointed ears from one elf to another.”

Alistair rubbed his temples, clearly in the throes of a terrible headache as he turned his attention to Lucia. “And you were nursed by an elven woman with the same name, the same tattoo and the same coloring as the mother Zevran was told had died giving birth to him.”

“Yes. Zarina was the same blonde as Zevran, too. I’d never given it much thought, really, but her eyes were also the same color. The only difference is that she was paler than he, but that may just be due to him being raised in Antiva, which is so warm and sunny.”

Alistair eyed them both. “It would be the world’s largest coincidence if true.” He shook his head. “Is there any chance she could have survived Howe’s attack?”

Lucia sucked in a deep breath. How she hated seeing the hope in Zevran’s eyes, for it was hope she feared would go entirely unmet whether or not the woman was actually his birth mother. “I don’t see how. We liberated the cells in the dungeon and she wasn’t among the prisoners. All the other bodies had been disposed of prior to our arrival, so there’s just no way for us to know with any certainty.”

“Did she have her own room in the castle?”

“She shared with one of the scullery maids,” Lucia replied.

“I…when everything is finished, the archdemon beaten and such, I’d…may I return to your castle to search?”

“Of course, Zev. I’ll go with you myself.”

“You will be getting married and having a child,” Alistair reminded her.

“That doesn’t change the fact that one of my best friends in the entire world needs my help,” Lucia countered.

Alistair sighed. “You are…something else.”

She grinned. “All of us are.”

“Thank you,” Zevran whispered as he rose to his feet, bent forward and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“You’re welcome.”

The two watched him walk away and then Alistair held out a hand and helped her rise from the log near the dwindling campfire as Sten and Oghren approached to begin their nightwatch duty.

After bidding them goodnight, Alistair and Lucia disappeared into her tent. “I have a bad feeling,” she stated.

“About what?” he asked, lying down on the bedroll and lifting the covers to snuggle beneath them.

“Zev.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked him in the eyes before blowing out the single candle that had been burning.

“I don’t think he’s going to be here when we awaken.”

“You think he’s going to Castle Cousland.”

She nodded.

Alistair sighed as he pulled her into his body. “Sleep. If he is indeed gone tomorrow, then we’ll follow him.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

“And I, you. Now hush and sleep and tomorrow Wynne and I will tell everyone about our journey with Sandal.”

Lucia smiled. She was looking forward to the tale. But then she frowned. Had Zevran Arinai’s mother really been a member of the Cousland household for so long?

And what would happen if he found proof that it had indeed been her?

And that she’d died?

Or…that she was still _alive_?


	9. Of Gryphons, Elves, Prophecies and Wavy Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Zevran (predictably) left for Castle Cousland in the night, Alistair and Wynne insist there are things that Lucia and the rest of their group must know before they set out after him. But the secrets of the past blended with creatures thought extinct, prophecies, carvings, long-lost islands and what's happening now with some members of their strange party make for a truth that is indeed, stranger than fiction.

When morning came, Lucia discovered that her prediction had come true. Zevran was no longer among them. He had taken all his own possessions, leaving behind those things which belonged to them as a group, such as the tent, the bedroll and some of the blankets. At first, she was angry with him for having left her nothing, such as a note, by way of explanation or apology.

But she also understood. She knew that in his place, she would’ve done the exact same thing. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean to return. It was simply that if there was a chance his mother lived after spending his entire life believing her dead, he had to know, one way or the other.

It made her think of Fergus. She had been forced _not_ to look for him because first of the battle at Ostagar, then of the Korcari Wilds being overrun by darkspawn and then by having to work as fast as possible to piece together an army to defeat both them and the archdemon that they knew was coming. At no point had there ever been a time when she comfortably felt as if she could say, stop the world, I’m going to find my brother.

Truthfully, what were the odds he even lived? If he’d been scouting the Wilds during the battle, surely darkspawn would have overrun he and his men. If not, they would have emerged at some point and someone somewhere would know of it. After all, she’d asked every person they met on the road, people in every village and town and city they went to, but the answer had always been of a kind. Nobody had heard of Fergus Cousland, seen him, found anyone wearing the Cousland family armor. Even Flemeth, when she traveled back to advise her that Morrigan wanted her dead and why, had indicated that no humans had passed nearby her hut. She did say she’d keep her eyes open, once Lucia agreed not to murder her, but so far no messenger birds had arrived to tell her of any sightings from any corner of the land.

Yet the thought that Zev’s mother lived in spite of everything that had happened, reignited a spark of hope inside her. Surely Fergus wouldn’t still be in the Wilds…but was it possible he had returned to Castle Cousland? Could he be there even now, meeting Zevran, learning that his sister was alive, that his sister’s wet nurse might be Zev’s mother?

“We need to leave the moment camp is broken,” she said quickly through the tent flap, startling Alistair as he finished donning his armor. Lucia couldn’t explain it exactly as he rushed from the tent and attempted to find out what her hurry was. “I have a feeling, deep down, in here,” she stated, hand over her five-month swollen belly.

“You’re…your hand is over the child,” he pointed out, a small knot gathering between his brows. “You know, I have a very odd feeling, Lucia,” Alistair stated as he reached out to take her hands. “I know you wish you be expedient now, but I think it’s time that Wynne and I tell you what occurred during our travels with the griffon. What we found…what he led us to.” Alistair swallowed hard. “This is…I’m still trying to sort it all out. But we all need to hear it.”

“I agree,” Wynne stated, carding her fingers through her freshly-washed hair as Oghren and Leliana approached. “Call everyone round the fire, would you, dear?” she asked of Leliana.

“Of course.”

* * *

Some twenty minutes later, everyone had breakfast in hand courtesy of Sten’s early-morning fishing expedition with Shale, which had resulted in a lot of squished fish, but thankfully the stew didn’t mind.

Wynne began recounting their story as Alistair hungrily shoved spoonfuls of stew into his mouth, drawing an eyeroll from Oghren, who proceeded to upend the bowl and slurp it unceremoniously. Lucia grinned, Leliana turned away in disgust and Sten simply tipped the entire bowl back and dumped its contents into his mouth all at once. This made Bodahn laugh out loud.

Even the allied emissaries closed in to hear the tale.

“We flew for endless hours,” Wynne began, to which Alistair nodded vigorously. “I honestly don’t know how long we were in the air, but the griffon gives off a surprising amount of heat. We found ourselves at some length flying over Gwaren.”

“Isn’t that one of Loghain’s assets?” Lucia asked, pulling a nasty face.

“Yes,” Alistair confirmed. “Although he ignores it completely, which makes it a completely pleasant place to be.”

“That’s not all it is,” Oghren pointed out. “It used to be an important dwarven city in the Deep Roads. It also at various times has been besieged by werewolves and had half its residents killed in attacks.”

“It was also,” Alistair added, “the first city that my father liberated from Orlesian rule in 8:99 Blessed.”

Leliana perked up. “Yes, one of the first songs I learned was about King Maric’s involvement with Gwaren. He liberated it twice, in fact.”

Alistair nodded in confirmation as Wynne continued. “Well, now you know why the remainder of this story will make more sense than it might have without understanding the history. You see, there is an island not far off the coast. The water there is so blue, the sky merely reflects it, and it is clean and full of the smell of salty air. But in spite of the beautiful weather and the many boats that dock there, the island is never spoken of or visited. It is heavily guarded by surface dwarves, who will only permit you to set foot on the land if you have the permission of the King of Orzammar.”

“Thanks to you, love,” Alistair stated as he kissed Lucia’s cheek, “King Bhelen’s gratitude in the form of the sealed missive he gave you to pass through any dwarven lands you feel necessary, gave us the ‘in’ we needed. The dwarves on the island permitted Sandal to land with us. They call the place Amgetoll, which means ‘duty’ in the dwarven language.”

“I thought that place was just a fable,” Oghren stated, surprised.

“It seems the dwarves have more secrets than how Caridin made golems,” Shale observed.

“Indeed,” Sten agreed.

Wynne had taken a few bites of her stew as they spoke. She nodded toward Alistair to continue the tale so she could finish eating.

“The dwarves were understandably shocked that we had Sandal with us – as a griffon, I mean.” He smiled at Bodahn, who was beaming with pride. “Their leader, a beat-up guy who used to be Legion of the Dead by the name of Olarkel, said he realized now what the massive opening that had been locked with orders to never open it, was for.”

“You should have seen it,” Wynne breathed as she swallowed her last bite of breakfast. “It’s surrounded by trees. Sandal could only get to it by coming in vertically to land directly in front of it. Two massive metal doors, clearly dwarven construction, but so large I have to wonder how such small people were able to construct them.”

“No kidding,” Alistair remarked. “It led into the Deep Roads, big enough for Sandal at some twelve feet tall to walk into the structure and down a massive staircase. At the bottom was a room larger than any I have ever seen, with ceilings even higher than those we witnessed when we were in the Deep Roads ourselves.”

Wynne picked up the story. “The room was bordered by six doors equally massive as those we had entered through. Sandal strutted up to the first and made a sound that was partway between a squawk and a roar. In response, as if under a trance, Olarkel unlocked the door. When it opened, there was another shield identical to Duncan’s.”

“Oh, my God,” Lucia breathed. “There are more griffons, all enchanted onto these Grey Warden shields. Aren’t there?”

“That’s my girl, smartest in camp,” Alistair beamed. Everyone but Lucia rolled their eyes. “And yes. It turns out that Olarkel was the griffon from that shield. He touched it just as Sandal had done with Duncan’s, and shortly he was as big as Sandal. They’re the exact same colors, but each griffon has a different pattern on their wings, which is how you tell them apart.”

“There were three females and three males,” Wynne stated. “Sandal, Olarkel and another former Legion of the Dead named Lurin all became male griffons. Besides Olarkel and Lurin, there were three other dwarves, all women, on the island as well. The first, Hardy, had also been Legion of the Dead, but Sindin and Arev had formerly been smith caste, brought to the island by Hardy when she left her duties. All became female griffons. They’re only just slightly smaller than the males, but the biggest difference is that their blue hue is lighter in color than that of the males.”

“There were stories in this place, long tales,” Alistair stated. “They’d been written in the Common language, chiseled into tablets inside that huge room, very much like the tablets you,” he nodded to Lucia, “took tracings of after you destroyed the Anvil.”

“What were these stories?” Lucia asked.

“They told of _everything_ ,” Wynne replied. “The griffons began dying out because the wardens could never get the chicks from their griffon partners’ eggs to survive. During the Storm Age, the Warden Roostmaster realized that while the griffons had chosen to partner with the wardens in their efforts, it was believed that their relative domesticity was responsible for their inability to reproduce. At the time at which everyone thought they went extinct, what actually happened was that he convinced all the griffons to return to their brethren in the wild, in a last effort to ensure the survival of the species.”

“The Roostmaster was always the second-in-command to the First Warden. The High Constable. In this case, the High Constable – the Roostmaster – was the one who maintained the aeries in Wiesshaupt Fortress.”

“In the Anderfels, yes?” Shale asked.

Wynne nodded. “You’ve been paying attention when I read in the evenings!”

Shale tsked but everyone who knew her could tell she was secretly pleased by her newfound knowledge being correctly shown off in front of them all.

Alistair cleared his throat. “This is the part where it gets unbelievable, and it’s one reason we have to go after Zevran that has nothing at all to do with how integral he is to our group dynamics.” Lucia frowned a bit as he continued. “Back when they were keeping and trying to breed griffons, the kennels were called aeries, but the nurseries were called weyrs.”

“Now wait a minute,” Oghren protested. “Weyrs are breeding grounds for dragons. That’s got nothing to do with griffons.”

“Except it does,” Wynne countered, earning a scowl from the red-headed dwarf. “You see, there used to be gryphons, spelled differently as g-r-y-p-h-o-n-s, whereas the Warden griffons is g-r-i-f-f-o-n-s. Unlike what most believe, those two spellings, along with a third that replaces the second o with an i in the latter spelling, weren’t simply recreations of words as times changed. They were actually three different species of the same type of creature.”

“My goodness!” Leliana exclaimed. “I was once taught a song about the gryphons, the one you spelled with the ph instead of the f’s. In this song, the creatures were said to have the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle and the head of a dragon. I simply thought this tale to be fantastical fiction.”

“It’s not,” Alistair revealed. “What you described is exactly correct. You see, the gryphons with the ph’s, they were the first creation of the Old Gods, the ones from elven lore. They created many of the creatures of legend, from their old magic that disappeared when Arlathan was destroyed.”

“What I wouldn’t give for Keeper Lanaya to be here right now,” Lucia muttered.

“The ph gryphons were indeed a combination that included dragons. Later versions, the ones that survived, were the two f versions. The one with two i’s, it had no dragon in it in all, but instead the feet of wyverns, and then our griffon as you saw in Sandal, has the body of a lion but the rest of them comes from the eagle – head, wings, talons.”

Wynne picked up the explanation. “The reason the Wardens’ griffons couldn’t reproduce in captivity was simply because they were never able to reproduce at all after the ancient elven magic fell. One of the last acts of Piron, a straggling survivor of the oldest elven magic arts, performed, was to enchant the last six Warden griffons into those shield faces to preserve them until such time as they could be reinvigorated with elven magic, to magically reproduce and repopulate the species.”

“I don’t get it,” Lucia said, standing up to stretch her legs and loosen her limbs from how tensely she’d been holding herself. “There have been elf wardens since the wardens appeared during the First Blight. I read those histories at Soldiers Peak. I have read all the books we retrieved from those shelves, too. There were elves with them all along. If all it required was an elf mage, surely they had at least one over the past hundreds of years.”

“That’s just it, dear,” Wynne said softly. “This is why Alistair and I knew we had to explain all of this to everyone before we go looking for Zevran.”

Lucia frowned. “What?” she asked, eyes darting back and forth between her favorite mage and her betrothed. “What haven’t you disclosed to us yet?”

Alistair sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “According to the writings we found on Amgetoll, the type of magic that allows an elf to mate with an elf and produce a full elf-blooded elf with all the traits we’re aware of, is the same type of magic that allows a griffon to mate with a griffon and reproduce a full-blooded griffon that will live.”

Lucia was confused as hell and was sure her face showed it.

Wynne jumped in. “The magical reproduction of elves is contained within them. As long as it’s elf-and-elf making the child, it will come along as a fully elf child with no problem. But the magic does not exist within the bodies of the griffons. They cannot manifest their own living children on their own like elves can. They need _help_. From outside.”

“When the egg is laid, you mean?” Leliana asked.

“Yes,” Wynne confirmed, “well done. The male couples with the female. She lays the egg. But the baby dies after the egg is laid, unless the magic is conferred upon the egg as _soon_ as it’s laid.”

“And the elven wardens had this information all along, if it was carved into the walls,” Sten stated. “But they did not do it. Why?”

“They tried,” Wynne replied. “No matter how many mages of Dalish blood, elf-blooded, pure human, noble, commoner, city elf…even one of the Qunari saarebas…tried, none of their spells or magics worked. _None_.”

“Finally, in the last entry carved by Piron himself in shaky writing, which appears to have been written as he was dying, he revealed what he believed was the reason behind all of this. He stated that he had a dream in which the elven goddess Mythal, Protector, All-Mother and goddess of love, patron of motherhood and justice, revealed to him what had to be done.”

“It was Piron who, as his final act before succumbing to the taint, left baby Sandal in the Deep Roads for you to find, Bodahn,” Wynne said softly as Bodahn’s eyes filled with tears.

“What were the last words he wrote?” Lucia asked.

“When a child born of elf and man bears the mark of the elf rather than the man, so then shall the magic be restored within and the griffons be reborn anew.”

“Child born of…wait…” Lucia’s jaw dropped. “You mean…that could be Zev? If he truly is half-human, but looks elven…“bears of the mark of elf rather than man”?”

“That’s why I went a little crazy there for a moment when you and Zev were weaving your tale for us,” Alistair admitted. “Wynne and I just looked at each other, and…well, there’s something else, too.”

“I don’t know how many more something else’s any of us can take,” Shale remarked.

“Hear, hear,” Oghren agreed.

“The full prophecy hints that the elf-blooded who looks elven is simply a portent of the final portion of the prophecy from Mythal, as recorded by Piron,” Wynne said, “which states that an elf-blooded king shall lead from death with the magic of Old, born of she who bears the mark.”

The group shared nervous, confused and in some cases, exasperated glances and looks.

“How can a king lead from death?” Leliana finally asked.

Lucia felt suddenly faint. “Oh,” she breathed, epiphany hitting her like a ton of bricks, hand flattening against her tummy. She swooned and Alistair gently helped her sit down on a log.

“Yes,” Alistair said quietly. “That’s what Wynne and I came up with on our return trip to you.”

“What is it on about?” Shale asked, perturbed.

“The only way a king can lead from death is through an _heir_ ,” Leliana said. She looked at Lucia, eyes darting down to her belly and back up. “But you said the child was Alistair’s!”

“We lied,” Alistair admitted. “We were partially trying to keep Lucia’s honor intact, but also trying to make sure that absolutely no one found out she is carrying Cailan’s child.”

“You and…Cailan?” Leliana asked, brow furrowed. “But…” she massaged her head. “If you think the child you carry, which you’re now saying is our former king’s, is the child of the prophecy, that would mean…”

“It would mean that King Cailan was elf-blooded,” Sten concluded in his flat, monotone voice.

Lucia looked up at Alistair, who had been standing above her after helping her seat herself. At first he shook his head, but then he looked at Wynne, before sighing and clunking down next to Lucia. “There’s more,” he said.

“Dear Maker,” Leliana breathed.

“Wynne and Lucia already know this, but…Cailan…well, my father was also King Maric, and though Cailan was always passed off as the legitimate royally-begotten heir, he and I were not half-brothers. We did have the same father in Maric, but we also had the same mother. We were fraternal twins.”

“Fraternal? Does that mean you could have had two different fathers but were born together of one mother?” Leliana asked.

“All I know is that it means we weren’t identical,” Alistair admitted. “So theoretically if your words are accurate, he and I could _possibly_ have two different fathers, or we may have the same one. Either way, it means at least one of us is elf-blooded, perhaps through the father's side if Maric isn't actually...that.”

“Which no one would be able to tell because you appear to be a squishy human rather than a squishy elf.”

“Yes, Shale, thank you, I am squishy no matter what I look like.”

“Quite.”

“I don’t see how this makes any difference, really, where I’m concerned,” Lucia stated with more certainty than she actually felt. “In order for me to be part of that prophecy, I would have to have some sort of mark on me and I am aware of none.”

Alistair cleared his throat. When Lucia looked at him, he’d gone so red she worried that his head was about to explode.

“I believe,” Sten stated, “that we may be about to become privy to information we really do not wish to know.”

“Spill,” growled Oghren lasciviously.

Lucia’s eyes widened. “I have a mark somewhere?”

“I didn’t think much of it,” Alistair stated. “We, uh…well, we’ve only…there’s only been the twice…I mean…” He cleared his throat again, looking for all the world like he wished he could crawl into the ground and never emerge. “You have…two large wavy lines and uh, one…one smaller…I thought it was from an injury, maybe falling on your arse during battle, such as on rocks or something that left marks.”

“Two large wavy lines?”

“And one smaller.”

“On my bottom.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that explains why it never saw them itself.”

“Wavy lines?” Leliana squeaked. “What do they look like?”

Alistair’s eyes met Lucia’s. Lucia turned to Wynne, who had also seen her bottom once when she’d had to heal an upper thigh injury just below her left buttock. Wynne swallowed hard and looked at Lucia, nodding almost imperceptibly.

Lucia’s shoulders slumped, head landing in her hands.

“What’s going on?” Oghren asked. “Just spit it out, wouldja? Or I’ll look myself.”

Glaring at him, Lucia felt her face heat up. “Apparently,” she said, an edge to her voice that even she didn’t recognize, “I have a mark on my arse that looks like—” She stopped, looked at Alistair. He nodded and looked away. “Like Zevran’s face tattoo.”

Even the crickets stopped chirping.


	10. From the Cradle of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our wardens and their companions continue to theorize and learn and make assumptions until even the Qunari gets a headache. And everyone comes to understand that in ways they're not all entirely certain of, one particular Antivan elf is more important to their entire situation than they could have guessed.

Duke barked, making everyone jump.

“Andraste’s tits, human,” Oghren declared, “that calls for me to break out the Antivan brandy!”

“Antivan…yes, that’s the other thing,” Wynne said quickly, no doubt trying to smooth over the valleslin revelation.

“Uh…ah, yes,” Alistair agreed, evidently glad for the distraction. “Zevran. Antiva. Right.”

“What now?” Lucia asked, wondering how the day could get any stranger.

“The reason we took such care to explain the griffons to you,” Wynne said, “and the carved tales and so forth, is because when the Wardens released the rest of their griffon herd to the wilds, there was a specific place they said the griffons would return to out of sheer instinct, and that place is called The Weyrs.”

“Which is where dragons come from,” Oghren offered.

“Not just dragons,” Alistair corrected. “All of the beasts created by the Old Gods, according to legend, originated in The Weyrs, which is why it was called that to begin with.”

“It was the elven Cradle of Life. Everything from druffalo to halla to all the types of griffons and many other creatures, most of which truly are extinct, were created by the Old Gods in that area, or so the carvings claim.”

“What has that to do with Zevran or Antiva?” Sten asked.

“Well, Zevran is _from_ Antiva,” Wynne said.

“So are a lot of people,” Leliana observed. “While in Orlais I befriended a lovely woman named Josephine who hailed from Antiva. We are friends still to this day, though admittedly we do not write each other as often as we could.”

“Look,” Alistair frowned in thought, having retrieved a scroll from his pack. He unrolled it on the ground before Lucia’s feet, using small stones to hold it open. It was a map of Antiva. “We found this in one of the cupboards on Amgetoll, along with a great many other things we haven’t even had time to look through yet.”

Lucia’s finger traced along the map, which was sparsely populated with words or anything at all, really. But she recognized Antiva City as being where Zevran said he was from. She also recognized the waterfront of Rialto from his tales as well as those told by the merchant they’d met in Denerim. But then her eyes moved to the very bottom of the map where it said along the entire length of it in no uncertain terms, _The Weyrs_.

“Wait, this…it’s an actual place?” Oghren stammered.

“And it’s in Antiva?” Leliana breathed. “Oh, my, this tale grows more romantic with each passing moment! I shall have to write an epic song about it!”

Lucia rolled her eyes as Alistair spoke. “As far as Wynne and I can piece things together, now that we know your wet nurse may have been Zevran’s birth mother, and that she told you her son was an elf-blooded, Zev might well be the one from the prophecy, the portent of the griffons being able to reproduce again, of old magic returning to make it happen, by virtue of the fact that he is elf-blooded but appears elven.”

“That would mean you’d have to believe in the Old Gods, the elven creators, rather than the Maker,” Leliana admonished. “And you, very nearly a Templar!”

“You don’t have to believe in one over another, child,” Wynne admonished. “There is nothing to say that the Maker didn’t create the Old Gods and allow them the same free will He allows all of His children.”

Lucia’s brow puckered. “That would make sense as to why Sandal was left for Bodahn to find, for if we look upon these Old Gods as naught but creations of the Maker as are we, and this truly is the work of Old Gods, then Mythal would have known what was to come to pass simply because she was one of the earlier children. She would have known that the wardens would survive, even through Ostagar, for Lucia was one of them, and the mother of the future king.”

“But how could she have known that?” Alistair asked. “After all, we were the last two at one point, and the only reason we survived was—” He paled as his own voice cut off his train of thought by completely giving out.

“Flemeth saved us,” Lucia breathed. “She’s…the Witch of the Wilds.”

“She sent Morrigan with you,” Wynne observed. “And Morrigan left shortly after she discovered you were with child, Lucia.”

“Why would…” Lucia felt another wave of dizziness hit her. “She must have known, or…or realized…about the baby.”

“What, that it’s Cailan’s?” Alistair asked. “How?”

“No, she…she would’ve believed it to be yours. Which means…she knew _you_ are elf-blooded.”

“But how can I be?”

“You said Duncan told you that your and Cailan’s mother was a Grey Warden.”

“Yes. That’s what he said.”

“He never said human or _elf_?”

“No. But…and Morrigan _knew_ this?” Alistair asked, face growing several shades lighter. “ _How_?”

“Let’s think about this for a moment,” Lucia said, rising to her feet and pacing like she did every time a tough problem needed her full attention. Everyone watched her going back and forth and back and forth like they always did. “We know you and Cailan had the same mother, and that she was a Grey Warden. We know that everyone says your father and Cailan’s father was Maric. If we assume for the moment that that’s the case, then the prophecy could apply to either Cailan’s offspring _or_ to yours, Alistair.”

“Meaning regardless who the father was, it would fit the prophecy,” Leliana concluded. “So you told everyone the child is Alistair’s, and in Morrigan’s mind that fulfilled Mythal’s prophecy.”

“Precisely,” Lucia nodded. “Now take the other part – the part about me. If the one with whom the child is conceived bears a mark, and the mark is so very obviously recognizable, once again, Morrigan would know about this. I mean, Zevran’s tattoo is on his face, for crying out loud. It’s blatantly _there_.”

“When did that witch ever see your arse?” Oghren asked. “And why was I not there?”

With a hard eyeroll, Lucia replied, “She took care of me after Flemeth healed Alistair and I, just after Ostagar. She told me as much. She could easily have seen this mark you say I have, as she was tended to me. In fact…oh, Maker, it’s all coming together now.” She turned to Alistair, who was now standing as well. “We encountered Morrigan and Flemeth in the Korcari Wilds when we were with Daveth and Jory gathering the darkspawn blood and the treaties, before the Joining.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Alistair nodded, warming to the thoughts she was having now. “She so willingly handed the treaties over, asking nothing in return, and then the very next night she plucks us from certain death. Us, but no one else.”

“Yes, and Morrigan admitted there were stragglers who’d survived, when I asked her whether anyone else had. I heard that some even got away to Kirkwall.”

“So…what, they knew it was us, or that we were involved, when we stumbled across the hut the first time?” Alistair asked. “How? I mean, that would assume that not only does Flemeth know Mythal’s prophecy, which is only to be found carved into tablets on Amgetoll, but that she also knew you and possibly I were requirements for that prophecy to be fulfilled. Or she knew somehow that you were with Cailan’s child already, still a fulfillment.”

“Whatever her role, whatever she knew, it was enough for her to risk the darkspawn who were still there, breaking off the roof of the tower to rescue us,” Lucia nodded. “And then use magic to heal us completely.”

“Dear Marker,” Alistair breathed. “I just had a frightening thought. What if…is it possible that Flemeth is…you know, one of the old gods?”

“This Mythal you mention. Her, maybe?”

“But those were elven gods,” Leliana countered. “Flemeth is human.”

“Were they?” Wynne asked point-blank. “Is _she_? We assume that since the elves considered them their gods, that they were also elven in appearance. But I have seen no evidence of such in any writings about them. We also assume that because Flemeth _looks_ human, she is. But our very own discussion of elf-blooded tells us that may not be the case at all.”

“Let me try to wrap us all around this,” Alistair said, a knot in the middle of his brow taking up half his eyebrow space. “Let’s say Flemeth is actually Mythal, which explains all the talk about how old she is and how she jumps from body to body, which is what Morrigan told you, Lu.”

“Yes, she did. Said she found it in her grimoire.”

“So Flemeth-Mythal gives us what we need to return to camp, saves us from certain death after the betrayal, sends Morrigan with us for reasons as yet unknown and tells you, Lu, that you and she will not cross paths again when you _didn’t_ slay her as Morrigan had asked you to.” Lucia nodded in agreement.

“And then Morrigan promptly disappeared once she learned you were pregnant, with what she thought was Alistair’s child,” Wynne pointed out.

“Can golems get headaches?” Shale groused, tapping on her forehead.

“Qunari can,” Sten replied, face stoic as ever.

“I think someone needs to draw all of these things out on a map of its own,” Leliana observed. “I’m a well-trained bard and even I don’t think I can remember all the twists and turns of this tale.”

“So what does this all mean?” Alistair asked. “I mean, whether or not Zevran is in any way involved in any of this, we still have the matter of you and the child you carry, as well as the griffons now at our disposal.” He sighed and shook his head. “Besides, I have to believe Zev’s part of the whole thing. I mean, his tattoo and your mark really are identical, I just…never really thought about it before. It makes sense why you would spare an assassin who tried to kill you, however, against everyone’s protests. It would also explain you feeling that you and he have a special connection.”

She nodded. “I remember very clearly telling you that I trusted him when you – on two separate occasions – tried to get me to see how insane I was for letting him live and allowing him to join us.”

“You did, at that,” Alistair confirmed, placing a kiss on her forehead.

“There is…one other thing that lends credence to it all,” Lucia stated after giving him a small smile, and then proceeded to explain to Wynne and Alistair what that had happened during the battle that took Rory’s life and resulted in the very strange way that Lucia saved Zevran.

When she was finished, Alistair seemed to permanently be about three shades whiter than his normal skin color. “You say you felt as if the magic came from the child,” he finally said.

She nodded. “And it came forth, I believe, because it knew Zev had to survive. In fact, I remember thinking at the time that it was Cailan’s child that would save us all, though I don’t recall why I thought that exactly.”

“Then he’s more important to you, to us, to that baby…to everything…than anyone ever knew,” Alistair finally said. “Which means that more than ever, we have to find him as soon as possible and make sure nothing happens to him.”

“Seems to me,” Oghren stated as they all rose to their feet to finish packing up the camp, “that we’ve got an awful lot of unique and important people we gotta take care of.” He looked at the bottle of Antivan brandy he held in his hand, as-yet-unopened. “Maybe I oughtta save this for the elf.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Lucia. “You know, once he finds out that his face tattoo is on your arse.”

Lucia glared at him.

And if anyone noticed that Oghren didn’t drink another drop of alcohol for the rest of the day, they said nothing about it.


	11. Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran meets someone very important to Lucia, then that person meets all of the other people who are important to Lucia, and then Zevran has an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: People are injured in this chapter. If you don't like your favorites getting hurt, don't keep reading.

Zevran’s heart was in his throat. Surely everything he wanted so badly to believe wasn’t true. His mother wasn’t alive. She hadn’t been someone that the woman he was oath-sworn to had known better than he had. She hadn’t lived in Cousland Castle as a well-paid servant while Zevran had gone through the torturous training and trials of becoming a Crow. Surely there was not so much coincidence in the entirety of the Maker’s realms to account for something so ridiculous.

And yet, here he stood at the front doors to the castle in question. All seemed quiet. To think that the last time he’d been here, with Lucia, Alistair and Duke, he’d had no inkling that the woman who’d carried him in her body might have been here as well, either alive or dead. He would ask her, if he found her, why did you never come for me? Why did not you attempt to rescue me once you discovered I was still alive and had been sold on the slave market? Surely you could have done _something_?

But could she have? A servant in the middle of Ferelden with little of her own, finding a small child she didn’t even know, in the middle of Antivan City in one of the Crows’ many nests? Highly unlikely.

He didn’t know whether to be calmly understanding, arrogantly murderous or innocently twisted in pain. What could he hope to discover, anyway? Most likely the elven woman wasn’t his mother. Most likely she hadn’t survived Howe’s siege of the castle. Most likely he would find no trace of her either way.

Then why had he come?

“One move and I gut you.”

Zevran froze as the man’s voice washed over him like a chill morning breeze. Some assassin he was, so lost in his own thoughts that he’d allowed himself to be snuck up on like that. “I shan’t move,” he assured the voice.

“Who are you and why are you here?”

“My name is Zevran Arainai. I have returned to Castle Cousland to see if I could find some trace of my mother.”

“Returned? I don’t recognize you.”

The voice coalesced into a man who walked around his side, longsword still pointed directly at his midsection. It was when he came to rest directly in front of him, however, that Zevran gasped, for this face could be mistaken for none other than, “Fergus?”

The man frowned. “How do you know my name? I have never seen you before.”

“I am duty-bound to your sister, Grey Warden Lucia. The family resemblance is…eerie.”

“My sister?” Fergus exclaimed, re-sheathing his sword. “She lives? And…is a…Grey Warden?”

Zevran and Fergus spent the next solid hour catching each other up, though not really getting to know one another all that well as themselves, as Fergus was more concerned about his sister than anything. Eventually, he asked Zevran to take him to their camp, and that was when Zev remembered why he was there to begin with.

So he went on to explain to Fergus about the elf servant they’d had, and how he had concerns that she might be related to him, and that he’d returned to look for her, to see if she had survived.

“Zarina? I haven’t seen anyone here since I returned with the four of my men who survived the Korcari Wilds. Do you know what happened to Ser Gilmore?”

Zev saddened. “He had lived through the attack here, and traveled with us. But was killed recently when our camp was ambushed.”

“Oh,” Fergus breathed. “And…I don’t suppose…my wife and son..? Or our parents?”

He swallowed hard. “During one of our many conversations, Lucia told me that initially, your mother and father survived. However, your father was gravely wounded, and brought to the servant’s exit by the Grey Warden Duncan, who had come here to recruit Ser Gilmore.” Zev looked away. “She said that your wife and son were killed in the first wave of attacks, in your bedroom.” He looked back to find the man’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Fergus,” he whispered.

Visibly struggling to bring himself under some semblance of control, Fergus eventually found his voice again to ask, “And our parents?”

Zevran squirmed uncomfortably. “I am uncertain that I should be the one to relay these things to you. Would you not prefer it come from your sister?”

He reached out and grabbed Zevran’s bare knee. “I need to know, Zevran. Now. Please.”

Nodding, Zevran felt his throat close up. How much bad news could an assassin be expected to deliver when usually the only talking he did was with his blades? Though of late, that had become a lie as well, as he had opened up more to Lucia Cousland than anyone ever before in his life, truth be told.

“Lucia said that she and your mother managed to reach your father, but that his wounds were so severe he could not even stand.” His words came out in rather a whisper, forcing Fergus to lean closer to him to hear them. “When Duncan returned to them, he agreed to help your mother and sister escape Howe’s men in exchange for your sister becoming a Grey Warden to fight the Blight that is upon Ferelden.”

Fergus leaned back. “I have a hard time believing Father would agree to such a thing. When it was broached earlier, he flat-out refused to send his only other child off to become a Warden, as I was leaving for Ostagar.”

“Apparently he gave his consent, but then your mother chose to remain with your father, to fight off Howe’s soldiers as long as she could, but then die alongside him. They basically forced Lucia to leave with Duncan. It was…a terrible situation, I am given to understand.”

The tears that had filled Fergus’ eyes now streamed down his face. His voice broke when his next words came. “I’m not surprised. They were devoted, so devoted to each other.”

“As, I suspect, were you to your Orina.”

Fergus’ face crumpled. He abruptly rose from the dining table at which the two had been seated and made his way to the large fireplace that needed no fire for the warmth of the season. He leaned against the stonework and at some length stated, “I am sorry for my display.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Zevran stated as he rose and slowly moved to join him. “Your sister has spent many a tear over the fate of her family, and her concern regarding your fate.”

“She talked of me, then, without barb or witticism?” Fergus asked with a half-smile as he swiped at the tears on his cheeks.

“She talked of you in a voice laden with how much she cares for you,” Zevran confirmed, and he knew there was a measure of wistfulness in his own voice. “So much has happened since the day I met her. The day she chose to spare my life when by rights it should have been hers to take.” He shook his head. “After all the tragedy she has endured, it will make her so happy to know you’re well.”

Fergus looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then his eyes met Zevran’s. “It sounds like you and she are close.”

Zevran bit off the words his tongue wished to form and instead summoned one of his stable of winning smiles. “Ah, that we are to an extent, but her heart belongs to the man who will be king.”

Fergus’ eyebrows shot up to his hairline just as a commotion was heard near the front of the castle. There was a lot of shouting, for one thing, and both men sprinted toward the front double doors in response.

What they saw took Zevran’s breath away. The doors were swung wide open. Duke was lying half in and half out of the doorway, so bloodied that Zev wasn’t even sure he was alive. Wynne stumbled forward, arm around the much smaller Leliana’s shoulders, the two of them only just barely righted by Sten as he darted in from behind them to catch them before they fell.

“What has happened?” Zevran asked, eyes scanning and realizing some of their group was missing.

“Who are these people?” Fergus asked as he nodded at his four men to sheathe their swords.

Oghren grunted as he crawled in through the doors, followed by Alistair, who was carrying a terribly wounded Bodahn.

“Where’s Lucia?” Zevran demanded, drawing a wide-eyed stare from Fergus, who it seemed had put two and two together and figured out these were the rest of his sister’s companions. “Where _is she_?” Zevran practically yelled, bringing everyone to silence.

“They got her,” Alistair breathed, dropping to his knees and barely holding onto Bodahn as he did so. “I…I couldn’t…” He lost consciousness.

“ _Who_ got her?” Fergus barked.

It was Wynne who finally managed to respond. “Morrigan,” she breathed. “Sandal is…outside, he…he’s nearly dead from…fighting a dragon…trying to save her.”

Leliana finally found her voice as ice ran through Zevran’s veins. “She…she broke Shale to get Lucia…and…a great red dragon came…it took Lucia…from Sandal…and Morrigan b-broke Shale when…when she…a-and…” She faltered, arms giving out and faceplanting onto the floor.

“Leliana, _please_!” Zevran knew he sounded like he was begging but didn’t give any fucks at all as he slid to his knees next to her. Wynne met his eyes and he immediately looked away from what he saw there. “And what?”

“Morrigan,” Wynne stated, “called the dragon ‘Mother’ – so we believe it was Flemeth.”

“So the witches took Lucia,” Zevran stated.

Wynne nodded. “You cannot…you mustn’t go after her alone, Zevran. All of us together could not beat her. Shale…I don’t know if she can be fixed…and Sandal…one of our only remaining griffons, he may also die. His healing is beyond my ken. I have depleted myself to dangerous levels simply trying to keep everyone breathing. Only the spirit keeps me alive now.”

Zevran rose to his feet, surveying the companions he knew so well. He thought of Lucia, belly slightly swollen with King Cailan’s child, being held in a dragon’s claw and carried away to who knew what kind of end. He thought of Morrigan, of how she had always been awful to both he and Alistair, and to Leliana and others of them from time to time.

A rage unlike any he had ever known built inside him. He could feel his face heat. His body began to tremble.

“Where would this Morrigan have taken my sister?” Fergus asked. “Does anyone know?”

“Alistair, Duke and I know where Flemeth’s hut is, in the Korcari Wilds not far from Ostagar,” Zevran replied, teeth grinding together. He glanced at the unconscious man on the floor. “However, he does not seem capable of going there right now.”

Duke suddenly awakened with a whimpering yelp and when he did, very nearly knocked Fergus over in recognition. “You’re not hurt, boy?” Fergus asked, happy to see someone else who had survived his family’s slaughter, though it was greatly tempered in the moment of fear. Duke barked and barked, then ran to the door and whined so loudly it hurt Zev’s ears.

And that was when Duke looked directly into Zevran’s eyes and somehow Zev, who’d never taken the time to get to know the dog at all, just _knew_. “He can take us to Lucia.”

Duke barked happily, turning in two complete circles, then running first to Zevran, then to Fergus and back to the doorway.

Fergus looked at Duke, then Zevran, then his four men. “Jarven, Colley, I want the two of you to settle our guests and clean them as best you can. Tend their wounds to your capabilities.”

“Yes, sir,” the men responded in unison as they began the work of moving everyone out of the doorway.

“Aprixeau, you will take our fastest horse and fetch a healer from Highever. Ensure they arrive at swiftest speed so that my sister does not return to yet more dead within our home. Pay them whatever they request, for our vault is still intact.”

“Yes, sir!” the soldier saluted, running through the castle toward a side entry that led to the stables.

“Peter, there is apparently someone called Shale and, if I’m not mistaken, a _griffon_ outside.”

“Shale is a golem,” Zevran supplied.

Fergus nodded. “We three will tend to ensuring they are brought to somewhere safe until the healers can help, but if this is indeed a true griffon…”

“It is,” Zevran assured him.

“Then Peter, you are wholly responsible for its survival, so keep the damn thing alive until the healer arrives.”

“Yes, sir!”

Zevran stopped Fergus as he made to follow Peter out the door. His hand had a vice-like grip on the man’s arm. “What about Lucia?”

Fergus stopped and placed his hand over Zevran’s. “Once our work is concluded, we’re going after her. I cannot allow my sister’s charges to be uncared for or she will never forgive me.”

“But we should leave _now_.”

“He is correct,” Sten offered as he plucked Bodahn from an unconscious Alistair’s arms and handed him off to Colley. “I am unable to make a long journey given the gravity of my leg wound, but I will help the one you call Peter tend to Sandal and Shale. You must begone forthwith. Lucia and the child must be saved.”

Fergus looked at the Qunari with large, round eyes, and then back at Zevran. “Child?” he breathed.

“I will explain on the way,” Zevran insisted.

Fergus nodded once, sharply. “Of course. I have horses enough for the two of us, Zevran. Come.” He took off in the direction Aprixeau had gone, Zev hot on his heels and Duke keeping even pace.

_We are coming, querida corazón,_ Zevran thought, and then his breath hitched. Realizing what he’d just called Lucia in the privacy of his own mind, he cleared his throat as they reached the stables and began saddling the two horses Fergus indicated were the next swiftest to the one Aprixeau was currently bolting toward Highever on.

_I am merely worried about the woman to whom I swore my service, nothing more_.

He tightened the saddle buckle beneath his pure white Imperial Warmblood’s belly, then groaned inwardly.

_She is a friend. A very good friend._

Zev adjusted the stirrups to fit his shorter-than-human stature.

_Mentiroso, can’t even tell the truth to yourself?_ he chastised inwardly, grabbing a set of reins from Fergus’ outstretched hand and settling them in place on the horse’s head.

_When?_ Zevran wondered as Fergus strapped Duke to the rump of his own Imperial Warmblood stallion in a way Zevran had never seen done before, which allowed the Mabari to be in his normal sitting position without falling off. _When did it happen?_

His heart leapt to his throat as the two men tore away from the stables, the hooves of their exquisite mounts pounding the hardened road, the wind they were creating making his braids come undone and his hair whip around his face.

_When the hell did I fall in love with her?_


	12. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucia's being held prisoner, but it's through the taunting of her captor that several truths come to light, changing her entire perspective on what she and Alistair have been doing and why...and on who it is she really has buried deep in her heart. But is it now too late for any of that to matter?

Lucia awoke in pain. She cried out but even to her own ears it sounded more like the mewling of a kitten than the bark of a Mabari. Slowly consciousness swirled round and round her like a fleeting wisp of magic that refused to be recaptured, but then eventually she managed to grasp it well enough to follow it to the waking world.

Then she hurt even worse. It felt like every inch of her had been bruised by lacerations and terrible blows. She wondered if bones were broken, for some of the pain stabbed her hard enough to make her think even now perhaps she was being pecked at by scavenger birds or perhaps even stabbed with daggers. Her eyes flew open, only to see that neither was the case. The truth was, in fact, stranger still.

As best she could tell, while definitely injured from the battle, at the moment Lucia was suspended by magic over the top of a bed of spikes, which effectively deterred her from trying to escape in a manner that would see her fall straight downward. Her arms and legs were spread so that she imagined she looked much like the rune gebo. It wasn’t lost on her that this rune had to do with the exchange of sexual energy between a man and a woman, particularly during the act of creating a child. She wondered if this had been done purposely due to her present condition but had little time to ponder any internal response as the door of the circular room she occupied opened and a very familiar person stepped through.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Morrigan parroted their first meeting. “A Grey Warden filled with taint and child alike, and not just any child but that of a king.”

Suddenly the way she’d gotten here flooded Lucia’s mind and fear rose so fast and hard that she retched, what little was left in her belly spewing to the spikes beneath. Gasping for air as Morrigan’s low, frightening laugh echoed off the rounded walls, Lucia choked and coughed on her own bile as images of her friends going down one by one in gruesome ways rose to the forefront of her mind unbidden.

“What…” She coughed a few more times, making her voice raspy from the effort. “Where are our companions? What have you done with them?”

“ _Your_ companions, dear,” Morrigan corrected. “The moron you and Arl Eamon think has the wherewithal to be king. The forever drunken dwarf and an elderly mage who may as well be in her grave already. The deluded bard who’s as in love with you as that arrogant yet wholly ineffective assassin whose life you spared out of pity.”

“What in the Maker’s name are you talking about?”

“Do not invoke the name of that which has never existed in a place such as this,” Morrigan spat. “Your awakened golem, a walking stone statue that thinks it has free will, that it’s even alive? The griffon who was supposedly extinct but of course you happen to have one on hand just because you’re ever so special, correct? The stupidly loyal mutt who tried desperately to make friends with me when all the while I wanted nothing more than to skewer it?”

Lucia huffed out a laugh. “You forgot Sten.”

Morrigan snorted. “He was the only one I could stomach, for he tolerated _not_ your whims and emotional decisions but questioned your inaction at every turn. You disgust me, you know it?”

“How?” Lucia asked, honestly curious.

“You indulge Alistair because you think you have to, because you fucked his brother, carry his nephew and are duty-bound to give Ferelden its lineage of kings.”

Lucia stared at the witch.

“You don’t love him romantically any more than you do Oghren. You tolerate the dwarf because you need the fighting body. You pander to Wynne out of desperation to reclaim any mother figure available, when you know full well she’s two breaths from the pyre on a _good_ day.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed and the corner of her mouth turned up in a wicked smirk. “You’re in love, all right, but none of those Mother and I defeated to bring you here are the object of your true affection.” She then waved her hand in the air and groused, “Bah, it matters not. Mother has what she wanted all along. All that’s left is for you to defeat the archdemon and carry the babe to term, and she will leave me in peace at last.”

With a shake of her head, Lucia’s brain caught up to what Morrigan meant. “You plan to keep me prisoner until the child is born?” she asked incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. More importantly, _Mother_ is serious.” She laughed again. “Do you know why she saved your lives from the tower that fateful night? Why she sent me with you and that fool Alistair to begin with? Let me tell you. On the eve of your battle with the archdemon, I was meant to lay with your precious bastard prince and conceive his child. Then, during battle, when one of you slayed the archdemon, its old god soul would enter the child in my womb, who would be of the taint since being conceived with a Grey Warden.”

“Wait…I don’t understand,” Lucia frowned. “Why upon slaying would the archdemon’s soul go into a child you’re carrying?”

“You don’t know,” she breathed. “They never told you, did they, the Grey Wardens?”

“Told me _what_?”

“Oh, this is rich.” Morrigan cocked her head. “My dearest Lucia, have you never wondered why _only_ Grey Wardens can end blights? Why _only_ Grey Wardens can kill archdemons, when men have hunted and slain dragons for centuries as mere men?”

“I…guess I never had a chance to think that far ahead.”

“And you think yourself a leader when you know not the most basic fundamentals of who and what you and Alistair actually are. Tsk-tsk-tsk. All right, let me be the one to enlighten you, then.”

Morrigan slunk around and around the bed of spikes so that Lucia could only see her sometimes. She wondered the rest of the time if the witch was setting wards or hexes or something out of her purview.

“When an archdemon dies, its soul – the soul of an old god – will simply seek out the next available darkspawn body and claim it, inhabit it. It will move from tainted body to tainted body should the one it’s inside of, be felled.”

“You mean killing the dragon isn’t enough to stop the archdemon.” Lucia blinked as understanding took root. “The dragon is just a vessel. We’re only killing the flesh, not the demon itself.”

“Very good. Ah, like most women, smarter than any man I’ve encountered. Such a pity you’re naught more than a place for Mother’s next body to grow.”

Ice chilled Lucia’s veins as the truth of her situation hit home.

“A Grey Warden, who has the same taint as a darkspawn, must be the one to kill the archdemon because its soul will automatically attempt to enter the taint nearest it. The problem for the Grey Warden is that while a darkspawn body has no soul, and thus will continue to live after possession, the Grey Warden _does_ still have their living soul. Thus, when the old god invades the Grey Warden’s body it encounters a vessel already full. This encounter kills the old god and the Grey Warden at the moment of impact.”

“The…Grey Warden who kills the archdemon… _dies_?”

“Yes. Now perhaps you understand why they commit you to their cause without telling you anything about what it actually means first. Even if the taint doesn’t kill you in thirty years, meeting a darkspawn and killing it, will. I was to be the vessel for the child that would carry this old god’s soul forward, until I learned that you carry Alistair’s child.”

_She doesn’t know,_ Lucia thought. _She doesn’t know it’s Cailan’s! She knows nothing about Mythal or the prophecy. But…does that mean our theory about Flemeth and Morrigan being involved from the beginning because of elven magic is wrong? I’m so confused!_

“That archdemon is still going to die. And it’s going to die by your hand. Mother will see to that quite easily. But the soul is going into the child _you_ carry in your womb, since it’s already there and already of the taint. It will go to the youngest, purest source of solace it can find and even if you kill it personally, the babe will be the one it seeks out.”

“I won’t help you. And once I tell Alistair of your plan, he’ll no doubt insist he be the one to kill the archdemon and keep my child and I far away. Neither of us will agree to anything you ask!”

“Oh? Is that so?” Morrigan made certain she was standing where Lucia could see her face very clearly as she stated, “Even now the two men you love more than anything or anyone else are on their way here to rescue you. Let us see, then, shall we, what deals you may be willing to make when you are forced to watch them suffer.”

Lucia’s mind swam. Two men? Who could she be talking about? Alistair couldn’t possibly be on his way to wherever they were unless some miraculous healer had gotten to him, for her last memories of him and the rest of her friends were that they were all near death. The only men she did not know with any certainty whether they were dead or alive were…her jaw dropped and she felt a sudden chill.

Morrigan laughed. “I see you have worked out of whom I speak. Ah, this will be a victory I will enjoy, for it will win me my freedom from Mother and allow me to eradicate your pathetically emotional attachments to those you hold dear, all at once.”

“Why?” Lucia cried. “Why do you want to hurt us so badly? We were kind to you! We trusted you! You said I was as a sister to you!”

“Ah, yes, as well as I can ever be expected to comprehend such a relationship. And yet, do sisters not turn upon one another for power, money, station?” Morrigan turned to walk through the door, and tossed back over her shoulder, “It’s not my fault that you have bad taste in companions. What you saw from me was an act, nothing more.” She snorted. “Rest well, Grey Warden. For soon you shall need all the strength you can muster.”

Lucia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her mind raced, not only with whether any of her group was still alive, but how she might get out of here to stop her rescuers from being captured, never mind all the things Morrigan had told her. Was the witch lying or telling the truth? What had she to gain in falsehoods now, with Lucia her prisoner?

A thought occurred to her as her struggles against the invisible bindings round her wrists and ankles proved fruitless. Was there any way that Lucia and Cailan’s baby might get her out of this? She recalled the incredible magic that had brought Zev back to life and her heart flipped in her chest.

Zevran. He hadn’t been with them as they’d neared Castle Cousland because he was already there. But Morrigan claimed that the _two_ men she loved most were on their way to save her. She steadfastly refused to think about that particular statement, instead attempting to determine who could be coming. Had Zevran chanced upon someone, perhaps at the castle? Had the others lived long enough for at least some of them to make it there? Warn him, perhaps? Tell him what happened?

Would he come for her? But how would he know where she was? _She_ didn’t even know. But if it _was_ him Morrigan had referred to, the other man…it _had to be_ Alistair…he would come, surely. He was her betrothed. He loved her. He would die for her. He wouldn’t let anything stop him. Would he?

_“You indulge Alistair because you think you have to, because you fucked his brother, carry his nephew and are duty-bound to give Ferelden its lineage of kings.”_

Lucia winced.

_“You don’t love him romantically any more than you love Oghren.”_

Anger filled her being. At first she called it righteous anger for the horrible things Morrigan had said of her and Alistair and their love, never mind her disparaging comments about the rest of the group. But then she stilled as a small voice from somewhere beyond anyplace she could grasp, advised her to check in with herself again on that matter.

What had she seen in the men close to her?

What had she _really_ seen?

As if a veil had lifted from before her eyes…a veil upon which she was madly in love with the half-brother of her child’s father…truths began to appear like bubbles of thoughts that she could reach out and pop in order to learn what these thoughts were.

_You think you have to because the king wished it._

Alistair is just as duty-bound as you.

_Your heart is pretending._

As is his.

_You love each other as Wardens, as those who have been thrust into a life neither of you wanted._

Your love is not the kind to sustain husband and wife.

_Have you not felt the mechanical way in which he has touched you the two times you have lain together?_

Have you not felt the twinge in your chest whenever you see a certain pair of eyes?

_Hear a certain voice?_

Partake in a certain laugh?

_You loved Rory more than you love Alistair._

Alistair loves someone he has not yet met, and that someone is no woman.

_You love Alistair the way you love Fergus, yet not nearly as fiercely._

And there’s nothing wrong with that.

_For he loves his lost Duncan the way you love Fergus, too._

By the time each of these thoughts had made themselves plain to her, Lucia’s heart was breaking for them both. The ruse they had agreed to…the orders they had sworn to follow, those directly from Cailan’s dead hand, were in the process of dooming them both to a lifetime of misery.

And if what Morrigan had said about the Grey Warden who killed the archdemon dying was true, and if it was Lucia that would live because her child would take on the archdemon rather than her or Alistair…that added a whole other layer to the entire situation.

All of this meant three things to Lucia. One: she needed to be the one to slay the archdemon, so that Alistair could live to become whatever it was he wanted to become…and meet the man he was meant to love, without worrying about her, or about Cailan’s child. Two: she needed to keep Zevran from being captured, so she could tell him how she really felt about him. Her heart ached even now as the thought sent surges of both panic and joy through her very center. And three: she had to get out of here fast, and before any archdemon was to be faced down the first dragon she needed to kill, was Flemeth.


	13. Death to Witches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the search for kidnapped Lucia Cousland, her Mabari Duke leads Zevran and Fergus to Flemeth's hut deep in the Korcari Wilds. An inevitable confrontation brings out the BAMF in the men - and the dog - determined to save their beloved Grey Warden's life.

Duke stopped just shy of the small rise over which Zevran knew stood Flemeth’s hut. The torches that had been lit along the path during his last visit, when Lucia and Flemeth made the deal that kept the Grey Warden from trying to end the life of the woman who had saved her and Alistair, were dark now, and all was quiet. It angered Zevran more than he could say that Lucia’s sense of honor was being repaid in this way now. But he had to focus on the task at hand, not on how much he wanted to rip that old _puta_ to shreds.

He saw no signs of life. Heard no sounds save distant forest creatures. Insects, mostly. Perhaps the witches were not here at all, and why would they be? This place was tiny and hardly somewhere suitable to hold a Grey Warden captive, especially one with friends who would sooner see the traitors dead than accept Lucia’s fate so readily.

Zev could not purge the rage from his blood. He wondered if this was what Oghren felt when he slipped into berserker mode, if this sort of all-consuming anger was what fueled his ability to lay waste to all around him even when he was so drunk he could barely stay upright. If so, Zev understood much better now the value of such training.

“Flemeth’s hut is there,” Zevran said quietly, with a nod toward the rise. “However, I have never been inside, so while it appears small from the path, it is possible there is more beyond which we simply cannot see.”

Fergus nodded once, sharply. Duke was completely silent, just staring into the distance, and Zevran got an idea. He had watched Lucia interact with the Mabari so many times and often thought her silly for how she spoke to him. But…she wasn’t silly at all, was she, he realized. She used every asset she had, and this dog who’d led both him and Fergus to this place as the location of his mistress, was one of them.

Dismounting swiftly and quietly, Zev handed his horse’s reins to Fergus as he also dismounted, then walked up to Duke and crouched next to him, laying a hand on his head. “Is she here, boy?” he asked.

He lowered his head and whined pitifully.

“She is,” Fergus nodded. “That’s funny, I’ve never seen him react to anyone the way he does my sister. He’s always been exclusively hers to speak with.”

“I watched her do this many, many times,” Zevran explained, more to deflect Fergus’ implication than anything. He turned his attention back to Duke. “He likes speaking with Sten as well, and he listens to us all, though doesn’t much care for Alistair.” He turned his attention back to Duke. “Do you know where she is?”

The dog bolted forward over the rise. Fergus turned back further up the path and found a small patch of trees to which he lashed their mounts before joining Zevran at the top of the rise. Quickly they scurried forward to follow Duke. He went round the left side of the hut and kept going straight for a good minute. Then he skidded to a halt and sniffed the air. He barked once, put his nose to the ground, inhaled and then sat down with a thump. He barked at Fergus, then at Zevran and then laid down on dirt in a clearing that was only sparsely covered by long, wiry grass.

“What does that mean?” Zevran asked. “Does he believe he has found her?”

“Yes,” Fergus nodded. “According to his body language, Lucia is directly beneath him.”

“Ah, so I was right. There is more to Flemeth’s home than just the hut,” Zev mused, turning in a complete circle. “I wager there is an entrance to this underground structure within the hut, but there must be another out here somewhere. Perhaps a cave entrance or some such.”

“Either may be well-guarded, but we are armed and we are angry and _nobody_ takes my sister,” Fergus growled.

Oh, Zevran _liked_ this man. He had a feeling they would be good friends indeed. Assuming they managed to save his sister’s life and live beyond the next hour, of course. The specter of gruesome deaths always lurked, after all.

Coming to a decision, Zevran nodded toward the treeline before them. “Duke, we need to find an entrance to rescue Lucia.” Duke perked up and cocked his head at the elf. “Can you locate her scent, or that of any others, there in the forest?”

Duke rose to his feet, barked once and zoomed toward the trees, Zev and Fergus hot on his tail. The men followed closely as Duke sniffed to the right a ways, returned to center and then sniffed to the left some distance. He subsequently began moving outward in a very methodical crescent.

“Consider me appropriately impressed,” Zevran remarked as the men hung back and watched the dog work. “I have never seen him do this before.”

“They are an incredible breed. You know, I got Duke for Lucia, but not on purpose.”

“Do tell.”

“I was with Father’s knights training in the woods surrounding Cousland Castle. I couldn’t have been but a lad of ten years. My assignment was to scout ahead for hidden foes and send up the call if I found any.”

“And instead of foe you found dog?”

“I found a _pup_ ,” Fergus corrected with a smile. “When I brought him home, Mother went into fits about bringing a war dog into the castle, but Father overrode her, insisting that it was sound military strategy to have a war dog imprinted on you when your enemies may use war dogs _against_ you.” He shook his head. “Lucia and Duke bonded in the amount of time it took for their eyes to meet. So taken was she with him that Father took to calling _her_ Pup. It was a nickname that stuck right up until the last time I heard them interact in the…” His voice trailed off. Zevran placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

Fergus flashed him a smile. “I apologize. Finding out all at once that you’ve lost nearly your entire family and household, and that the only surviving member is—” Fergus stopped and paled. “Wait…someone…the Qunari. He said…my sister is with child?”

Yet another thing Zevran truly felt it would be best for Lucia to convey, but ah, what could be done now? Cows do not fancy being placed back into barns after escaping, so they say. He sighed as they continued to watch Duke sniff further and further outward from where they stood.

“Lucia and Alistair told us all one day, just after we came upon the _Garas’Bellanaris_ clan.” Off Fergus’ confused look he explained, “We had been seeking them out to negotiate their assistance based on a centuries-old treaty the Dalish elves signed with the Grey Wardens to offer their support during a Blight. As we wandered the Brecelian Forest looking for this clan, Lucia had suspected she was with child, but waited to confirm it with the Dalish healers before telling Alistair.”

“Alistair?”

Zevran forgot that Fergus had no clue who _any_ of them were. And yet here he was trusting a former assassin to help him find his only living relative. How very much like his sister was he.

“Alistair Theirin is the bastard child of King Maric, half-brother to King Cailan and intends to claim the throne from Loghain and the Queen at a Landsmeet that has been called by Arl Eamon. Alistair is also a Grey Warden. In fact, he and Lucia are the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden. It has been completely up to them to rebuild an army capable of defeating the archdemon and its darkspawn followers. To end the Blight before it ends Ferelden, as it were.”

Fergus looked at him incredulously. “Our future king is running around Ferelden fighting darkspawn? And my sister…she…carries his child and is doing so as well?”

Zevran nodded. “So we were given to understand.”

Fergus tore his eyes from Duke’s continued work and locked his gaze upon the elf’s. “Why does it sound as if you don’t believe this?”

“Because I don’t.” Zevran shook his head. “I haven’t, not since they revealed this information to us in the Dalish camp.”

“What makes you think they were lying? And why would they? My sister’s honor had already been destroyed if she discovered she was...” Fergus’ eyebrows shot up. “Do you believe someone other than Alistair to be the child’s father?”

“I do,” Zev admitted. “And I could not possibly pinpoint for you why this is the case. It’s just…she has tells, your sister. The way her eyes move when she is pouring on the charm to persuade someone to do what she wants them to do, even if it means being untruthful. They shift, and they narrow a bit, and she…” Zevran touched his lips and closed his eyes, picturing her face. “She purses her lips together rather stiffly, usually three or four times in a row. There is also this thing she does with her right index finger, her second finger and her thumb.”

“You’ve noticed that?” Fergus asked. “I don’t think even our parents knew about that one.”

Zev smiled. “Yes, she rubs the tips of them together rapidly when she’s hiding something, or is uncomfortable for some reason.” He caught Fergus’ look and felt the tips of his ears get hot. “Do not act so surprised, my dear Fergus. I am a well-trained assassin by trade, who must know people at least as well as he knows how to kill them, in order to reach the desired outcome, yes?”

Fergus shook his head. “I feel I have missed out on so much these last months.”

“Well, you have, there is no way to make that bitter ale taste like sweetjuice,” Zevran acknowledged. “But just think of how her face will light up when she sees you whole and well.”

As Fergus opened his mouth to respond, Duke growled and then started barking wildly. Before Zevran could even think his blades were firmly in his hands and Fergus’ longsword was in his right hand with his Cousland crest shield slid into place on his left forearm. The men automatically moved back-to-back and began circling, scanning the clearing that had been at their backs as well as the forest surrounding them on the other side.

“Whole and well,” came a voice very familiar to Zevran indeed. “She is. For the moment, anyway.”

“You _bitch_ ,” Zevran seethed, once more feeling rage boil his blood.

Morrigan, still unseen, laughed.

“One of the witches?” Fergus asked.

“Yes. The one who traveled with us for a time and betrayed your sister so egregiously.”

“Such big words for an uneducated murderer,” purred Morrigan. “Tell me, assassin, how does it feel to discover that the woman you love is in such peril?”

Fergus’ head whipped toward Zevran, but Zev merely swallowed as his anger grew exponentially.

“There isn’t a world in which you will win,” he finally ground out.

“Truth,” Fergus confirmed.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the wayward elder brother returned to the land of the living. Oh, how her heart will twist in grief as your life blood is taken drop by drop.”

“You’re right,” Fergus said to Zev. “She _is_ a bitch.”

A loud roar off to Zevran’s left made his hair stand on end. He realized there was a gigantic bear angling through the woods toward him, and that Duke was charging toward its side. In the next second he also realized that bear was Morrigan herself, but instinct told him not to engage even as Fergus moved to help Duke.

Zevran whirled around to face the clearing, beyond which stood Flemeth’s hut, and that was when he saw it: a gigantic red and black dragon that, under any other circumstances, he would find exquisitely beautiful. Now, however, all he saw was an obstacle to be eradicated. He moved forward as the dragon flapped in from the sky and landed. Allowed her ear-piercing cry to wash over and past him without reacting, refusing to give in to the hex it brought with it to upset his poise.

As he advanced, the dragon eyed him. His practiced eye scanned her for vulnerabilities. He had never taken on a dragon alone, and certainly never encountered one this large. Was this, then, what had retrieved Alistair and Lucia from the Tower of Ishal the night Ostagar burned? He looked at the four feet, at the sheer size of the creature’s palms and the length of its talons, and mourned for how devastating her attack must have been on the companions as they chased after him to the castle.

Chased after him. Would they have been safe had he not left in the night? Probably not, his logic told him. Flemeth and Morrigan simply would’ve attacked the camp instead, perhaps while all were asleep and then surely all would be dead now rather than fighting for their lives at the Cousland home.

With his usual cocky grin, Zevran – never losing his fighting stance – asked, “So, you are the lovely creature to whom I owe my thanks for rescuing my dearest Grey Warden, then, are you not?”

The dragon’s snake-like tongue darted out and touched its left eye as both its eyes narrowed.

“I believe we have met but once, though I spoke not in your presence and you, if you will forgive me for being so blunt, were not nearly as exquisite in appearance as you are this day.”

He circled to the right, his assassin’s ears picking up sounds from the forest that told him Duke and Fergus might just be getting the best of Morrigan. He shot to them all his hopes because he would love nothing better than to see that traitorous witch’s body torn limb from limb spread over the forest floor together with a blanket of her blood.

The dragon twisted her body slightly to keep Zevran in her sights as he continued to slowly circle her.

“Let me not forget manners, even here,” Zev stated. He bowed in a curtailed fashion, unwilling to take his eyes from his foe. “My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I was a member of the Antivan Crows sent to slay the last two remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden by Regent Loghain, who seeks still to blame King Cailan’s demise on wardens rather than his own actions. I believe it goes without saying, given that Lucia is your guest, that I did not succeed.”

What Zevran found most intriguing was that the dragon actually seemed interested in what he was saying. Or perhaps she was simply determining whether she could swallow his daggers along with the rest of him, who could say?

A great roar from the forest to his left made the dragon’s head snap up, her eyes zeroing in on the source of the sound and in that moment, Zevran knew he had her. As the bear’s guttural roars morphed to the terrified and pain-wracked screams of a human woman, as the dragon spread her wings to lift herself toward where her daughter was at this very moment in the process of being slayed quite effectively, Zevran made his move.

He sprinted toward the dragon, crouched mid-run and sprang into action, leaping forward with daggers at the ready. He plunged them through her tough hide where it was less protected, at the conjunction of her neck and body. She reared back and his legs flew out behind him but he would not be denied, holding onto the grips of his daggers with every ounce of strength he possessed to keep from being flung aside.

The rage he had felt earlier for Morrigan’s betrayal, for the trickery both women had played upon them all, for daring to harm all of their companions and for taking Lucia as their prisoner, for them having the gall to do this to a woman he’d only just realized he was desperately in love with…it poured out of Zevran like a waterfall’s deluge after the spring rains. He let out his own anguished, angered cry of pain and torment and loss and fear and revenge, pulling the right dagger out and plunging it back into the dragon’s neck a little higher. Then the left one, out and in, and as he sliced downward with all his strength the creature cried out and began to glow, so blindingly that he could not help but close his eyes.

Within seconds the dragon had become a woman and Zevran’s eyes reopened to find that both daggers were completely through Flemeth’s neck, blood spurting out of the right side, head nearly severed. He chose to make _certain_ and crossed the blades over her throat as their eyes met one last time. “Well…played,” she croaked, before closing her eyes. Zevran swept the daggers in opposite directions and Flemeth’s head rolled cleanly away. In that moment her eyes glowed briefly and a white, shimmering presence floated up from her head just as Fergus and Duke reached them, both covered in blood and guts that Zev could only assume had once belonged to Morrigan.

“How could we beat them?” Fergus asked as the white wisp disappeared into the skies above. “How could they have taken your entire company and yet the two of us and Duke succeeded?”

“They had the element of surprise,” Zevran said, wiping his blades clean on Flemeth’s dirty frock before re-sheathing them on his back. “The dragon probably hit them all with a fireball before they even knew they were under attack. In contrast, we had full awareness of what we were facing and…you know, it is very strange, but…I got the impression that Flemeth was actually curious about me. I do not know why. She kept looking at my face.”

Fergus examined him. Cocked his head. “Perhaps she saw your tattoo? But you said you had already met. Surely she could have seen it then.”

“True enough.” He thought for a moment. “But then again, perhaps not. The day we made our way through the Wilds to speak with Flemeth, it was a very hot and humid day and branches kept tearing at my hair. My braids came undone and eventually I gave up trying to fix them. By the time we reached the hut, my hair was completely undone, and probably covering the tattoos.” Suddenly his face twitched and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. “We shall have to puzzle upon this later. I feel…” He shook his head. “I don’t know…I feel… _her_.”

“Her?”

“Your sister,” Zevran stated, wondering at the strange buzz that was emanating from precisely where his facial tattoos were. His fingers moved to touch them even as Fergus asked Duke to get rid of the disgusting blood and guts covering him. “Lucia,” Zevran whispered, closing his eyes as Duke’s long, wide tongue began cleaning Fergus off.

Zevran could see Lucia suddenly in his mind, as though he were dreaming in vivid images but while yet awake. He gasped softly as he took her in, hanging from seeming nothing. Suddenly her right arm came loose from whatever it was that had been holding it up. She looked at her arm, then looked down and screamed. Zevran looked down, too, and realized why she had begun frantically struggling when he saw what was beneath her.

“No!” he yelled, running flat-out for the hut. “ _Lucia_!”


	14. Bring Her Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucia saves herself from instant death, and Fergus and Zevran - along with a very special certain griffon - bring her home.

Lucia knew she had only one chance to get this right. She stopped struggling and honed in on her belly, picturing in her mind the tiny life growing there. “Please help me escape this,” she whispered. “You will not survive, Little One, if I fall. And you _must_ survive, no matter what happens.”

A surge of strength, of sheer power, began at her toes and moved upward so fast that it blew her hair up and out, loosing it from its bun and then its braid until it fanned out and upward. As the tether holding her right arm gave way, Lucia felt herself remaining steadfastly upright, like standing on air. She looked down at the quickly-dissolving magic still binding her ankles and knew instinctively that whomever had shackled her here was dead, for their spell was dying right before her eyes.

When the bindings at last broke away from both ankles simultaneously, Lucia lifted her arms into the air and began floating to the right. The winds whipped her hair, stinging it into her exposed flesh and only then did she realize she wore nothing but her smallclothes. Even with all the magic coursing through her body, Lucia started feeling exhaustion tug at the corners of her mind. _Little One_ , her mind reached out to the baby, _I don’t much left in me. I need…_ The face that flashed before her mind’s eye made her smile. _Him_.

Slowly she lowered herself to the space of floor between the spike plate and the wall, but could not hold her weight. She crumpled to the floor with a sigh. “Thank you,” she breathed. “I love you.” And then her eyes closed.

* * *

There wasn’t a door built that could’ve kept Zevran from Lucia Cousland, though in this particular case he’d needed Duke’s body weight and Fergus’s muscle to help take the one separating them down for good. The men ran into a circular room where Zevran first noted the bed of spikes that he remembered from his vision, then saw Duke galloping with a whining bark around to the left of the apparatus Lucia had been strung up on and finally his tattoo tingled once more, his stomach knotted painfully and he stood stock still as Fergus shouted his sister’s name and landed in a sliding kneel next to her on the smooth stone floor.

Zevran’s hand splayed flat over his belly as his breath hitched. He felt…a tug. A…strange sensation he couldn’t even begin to identify. Like…a flutter. Or like…something was _inside_ him moving. Fergus had lifted Lucia into his arms, but stopped his quick movements when he got a look at Zev.

“What…” Fergus blinked as he hiked and readjusted his sister to better settle her weight. “Your…your tattoo,” he breathed, eyes widening. “It’s…uh…glowing. Um…white.”

Zevran’s hand flew to his left temple but before he could begin any contemplation about what was going on, a strange glow came from somewhere under Lucia or perhaps up against Fergus’s torso where he held her tightly. “Wait,” Zev breathed, darting forward and crouching beneath her body. “There’s…she’s got something glowing, too.”

“What is it?”

“I…can’t tell. It’s just a bright white…sort of…blob of light.”

“That’s what your face looks like, too.”

A thunderous sound outside made them think a storm had suddenly blown up, but rather than dark grey skies they saw only blue…and something huge headed their way from the above.

“Andraste's ass, don’t tell me there’s another dragon,” Fergus moaned as he readjusted Lucia in his arms.

“No! That’s…it’s Sandal!” Zevran breathed.

“That was the griffon at the castle,” Fergus breathed. “He was badly injured.”

“It would appear that Wynne has regained her mana. Or that your man managed to get a very powerful healer.”

“Thank the Maker,” Fergus breathed as Sandal made a perfect, gentle landing in the wide clearing not far from Flemeth’s headless body.

The griffon barked out a cawing sound that was nearly deafening, but as he lowered his body to the ground and extended his wing, the men realized this was their ride back to Cousland Castle.

“I never would’ve believed in a thousand Ages…” Fergus breathed. “They’ll have to start calling this the Griffon Age now.” He grinned at Zev. “Climb aboard and I shall give my sister over to your care.”

Zevran raised his eyebrows. “Truly?”

Fergus’s smile softened and he nodded. Zevran climbed up Sandal’s wing, nearly giddy from the softness of his feathers and the headiness _of being astride a real griffon_. They managed to manhandle Lucia into position so that she was more or less lying across Zevran as though he was completely holding her in his arms. When he realized for the first time, or at the very least _allowed_ himself to realize, her state of undress, he looked first to Fergus, but realized the man with his rather heavy armor would be of no help at all. So Zev pulled off his own shirt, which had been one of the more casual that he’d worn for traveling to the castle rather than his full-blown armor, and managed to work it over Lucia’s head and arms so some of her was covered, at least.

Fergus shoved himself up to spoon Zevran’s back, his right hand holding one of Lucia’s legs where they jutted out from Zev's lap, and his left hand coming around Zev’s bare torso to hold on. Zevran’s left hand cradled Lucia’s head while his right was wound down around her hips, grasping at several long feathers very tightly to keep her in place. Duke, without any real way to hold on, barked relentlessly as Sandal’s great wings began to flap and he started rising. All at once one of his feet wrapped around the dog, who finally stopped barking manically and yipped in either joy or fear, Zev couldn’t be certain which.

He leaned forward as Sandal pointed them northward, Fergus following his every movement to keep them low and as close to the griffon’s body as possible since neither of them had a clue how to ride the damn thing without falling off. Neither realizing, of course, that it was Sandal’s own mystical magic that kept them on his back, not their own attempts to do so.

Exhaustion tugged at the corners of Zev’s mind as the adrenaline rush of fighting bears and dragons and witches and finding Lucia and feeling weird stuff inside of himself and discovering strange glows and epiphanies about being in love with someone he really had no right to be in love with…while all of that sort of fell away finally and left him wanting for energy and a place to start figuring out what happened next.

Of course, all of that depended wholly on the woman in his arms. And who knew where she wanted to be? Who she wanted to be with? What she knew or didn’t know at this point?

He felt something, then. An…energy he couldn’t quite place. Instinctively he lifted his head from where his cheek had been resting on her forehead even as his hair, unbraided by the wind, whipped around his head. He looked down. Her eyes were open. They were shining. She was _smiling_.

“Where are we?” she asked as though they were in their own quiet little bubble somewhere and not flying at some terrifying height above the ground aboard a beast thought extinct.

“Sandal is taking us home.”

“Home?”

“Your home.”

“Who has my leg?”

“Fergus,” he replied with a smile.

She gasped. Smiled widely. Tears pooled in her eyes and leaked out. “I knew you would come for me, Zevran,” she said, choking out a sob as her arms rose to wrap around his neck. “I…I’m so sorry, I’ve been a fool.”

Hope blossomed faster than they were cutting through the evening air. “You are many things, _il moya amora_ , but a fool is not one of them.”

“We’ve been wrong, Zev. All of us. Alistair and me especially.”

He froze, including his smile freezing in place. “Perhaps we should wait to discuss this—”

His words were cut off when she surged up and kissed him. There wasn’t enough energy in either of them, and the angle was awkward, so it was nothing more or less than a pressing together of their lips, but it meant _everything_ to him.

“I love you, Zev,” she breathed. “And…I…I can’t…”

He placed a finger over her lips. “I love you as well, Lucia Cousland.”

A soft smile that spoke of _rightness_ and _finally_ and _home_ and _adoration_ graced her features. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she settled against him and he held her as tightly as he could.

“So I’m guessing,” Fergus said into his right ear some moments later, “this kind of changes what you told me about who’s going to be Queen of Ferelden.”

Zevran barked out a laugh, shook his head, and accepted Fergus’s deep rumbling chuckle that vibrated his entire body, as his approval.


	15. Healing and the Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang is back together at Cousland Castle. Alistair and Lucia have "the talk," and then Alistair meets the mage who healed everyone Flemeth and Morrigan had tried to kill.

The reunion, when it happened at Castle Cousland, was raucous, loud and wholly welcomed by every single person present. Lucia and Fergus held each other forever before she let go long enough to turn and find herself watching Alistair. Alistair, who was looking alternately between her and a very guilty-looking Zevran. Alistair, who very clearly was trying like hell to appear affronted but failing miserably in his quest.

Alistair whom Lucia held for a long number of moments, whispering in his ear that she understood now, that they didn’t have to keep up the pretense. He tried to launch a token protest. It died in his throat. He shed tears into her shoulder. She shed tears into his. Everyone left them alone for a time. Eventually they parted and spoke.

“I love you, Lucia, but…”

“I know. Me too, Ali.” She kissed him warmly on the cheek. He blushed.

“I guess I kind of love the baby, too, being his or her uncle and all.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, hand automatically flattening over her belly bulge.

“So…the elf assassin? Have you no sense of self-preservation?”

“I hear from Wynne that you attempted to shield three of our friends with your _body_ when Flemeth spit fire at you guys and you’re after _me_ about self-preservation?”

“I’m a warrior!” he protested.

“And I’m a woman in love,” she smiled softly, smoothing along his cheekbone with her thumb.

“Well, I will never be _that_ ,” he half-smiled, then all out giggled, Lucia following suit. “But…really, are we – I mean, we _are_ okay, right?”

“As long as you’re okay, then I’m okay.”

“I’m more than okay. You killed that _bitch_. I told you she was bad news!”

“And you were right.”

“You should listen to me more.”

“I should,” she nodded.

A few moments of silence as only the distant sounds of their friends chattering up a storm while nursing themselves through various stages of healing could be heard, and then Alistair looked at her.

“I don’t know what to do, Lu,” he finally admitted.

“About?”

He shrugged one shoulder and pouted. “I still don’t want to be king. I only agreed to it, to _all_ of what we’d planned, because Cailan basically ordered me to in that letter he gave you, and because I never want you to be alone with the child, alone in _any_ of this.”

“I know, Al, same for me. I mean…” She sighed and shook her head. “Everything’s a mess.”

“What if we let Anora keep the throne?”

“What if she’s as much a traitor as her father?” Lucia countered.

“But what if she’s not?”

“How would we know?”

He sighed, frustrated. “The fact is that you bear Cailan’s child. If that is made known, you will be a target for a whole different reason, and even if Anora _isn’t_ the same kind of traitor as Loghain, a future rival for her power would not be a threat she’d likely ignore. No monarch of any substance would.”

“I had thought of that, too. Even if this child is born without taint, and born to rule, and full of the most powerful magic in the world, it will still be a baby and then a small child and then a growing child for a long number of years.”

“True. But then again, Anora fifteen or sixteen years down the road will be pushing what, fifty? Sixty? However old she is now, I don’t know.” He eyed Lucia. Cleared his throat. “Have, uh…you and Zev talked? I mean, do you two have…I don’t know, have you made plans for…after?”

“You mean after we stop the Blight?” Off his nod, she shook her head. “No. There’s been very little in the way of talking. I only woke up on Sandal’s back and then have spent most of my time here with Fergus and now you.”

Alistair nodded. “Lu, I think we need to come clean with our group here. I think we need to tell them the truth about the child you carry. About Cailan’s directive, about how neither of us wants to do what he asked and about the prophecy Wynne and I uncovered where we found the griffons.”

“This will be…interesting.”

“Oh, and by the way, do you remember that dwarf girl Dagna that you got Irving to take under his wing at the Circle?”

“Yeah, I do. Spunky little thing.”

Oghren said she used to be one of Branka’s hangers-on before Branka went nuts in her quest for the anvil. He sent word to her and she already sent word back by raven. She’s headed here to the castle.”

“What? Why?”

“Apparently she thinks she can put Shale back together, and even better than she was before.”

Lucia nodded and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad. I’d hate to lose the only independent golem in Thedas.” She sighed. “How you can become such close friends with a rock beast is beyond me.”

Alistair gave her a one-arm side hug and then the duo rose to their feet. He sucked in two lungfuls of breath, held it and then exhaled. “Ready to do this?”

She nodded. “I’m ready to come clean. I hate lying.”

“Yeah, you’re no good at it, either.”

“I will take that as a compliment, serah.”

He laughed as they headed back to the main hall where those who loved them and who they loved, waited. When Lucia walked in, a grand cheer erupted and Alistair smiled, content to hang back as Lucia automatically captured all the attention no matter where they went.

While she went around one by one to each of their companions to speak with them individually, find out how they were doing and share in the joy of hugs and hugs and more hugs with each – even Oghren – Duke danced around her feet and Alistair sat down in one of the chairs placed here and there around the room, this one closest to the doors leading to the castle foyer. He was shortly joined by the man who’d come all the way from Highever proper, who had healed each and every one of them, and who had been sleeping ever since trying to rebuild his strength.

It had been a massive undertaking, after all, but for all the time the mage had spent stitching up Alistair’s many broken bones and other internal and external injuries, the once-but-no-longer-future-king only vaguely recognized him when he entered the hall and took the seat next to him.

“Hi,” the man said, his voice soft and bright. His hair was long, down to the bottom of his neck, and it was golden like a sunset. He had it haphazardly pulled back into a high ponytail, though the bottom half of the hair in the back just hung down like it couldn’t be bothered to join the rest of its kin.

“Hello,” Alistair said, and then made the mistake of meeting the man’s direct gaze. “I…”

They were an enchanting shade of amber-brown, and his smile both cheeky and cautious, as if such a thing were possible. It reached his eyes, that much could be said of it with certainty.

Alistair’s mouth dried out completely.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the man asked. “I was the one who tended everyone’s wounds. The healer fetched from a Highever tavern where my last coin was being spent on quenching my thirst.” His smile widened. “There was no one here to tell me your names, as the man who fetched me knew none of you.”

“I…” Alistair fumbled, felt his cheeks flame and wondered what was wrong with him. “Al…Alistair. I’m Alistair.”

“I’m called Anders.”

Alistair blinked. “That’s a label, not a name.”

The mage laughed brightly, eyebrows shooting up. Alistair noticed suddenly that a few wisps of hair had escaped over his forehead, and watched as they fluttered with his head movement and then settled upon his skin. He had about two days’ stubble as a beard and then Alistair’s eyes landed on his lips.

“Anders is what I’ve been called since I was imprisoned in the Circle.”

Alistair watched his mouth move. After a few moments, his brain caught up. “But you’re not in a Circle right now.”

“No. I keep escaping. I think I’m on my fifth one right now. Or maybe sixth.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m afraid I’ve lost count.”

“You’re an apostate.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You talk like a templar.”

Alistair held his hands up in defense. “I never got that far. Went through the training, joined the Grey Wardens instead. You’ve nothing to fear from me. Especially if you’re the one who fixed all my broken bits.”

Anders smiled warmly. “Well, I’ve fixed the parts of your body that were broken, at least.” He cocked his head, studying the man before him. “May take longer to fix the other stuff.”

“Other stuff?”

The mage nodded toward Lucia, who was currently chatting full-speed with Leliana. “Something tells me I’ve walked in halfway through a very long and complicated story.”

“That’s very perceptive of you,” Alistair stated, then raised one eyebrow and eyed the man suspiciously. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You’re awfully suspicious.”

“Not without cause. Our king and all the Grey Wardens were betrayed by a Ferelden hero, then by someone who spent more than a year fighting side-by-side with us before she and her mother attacked and nearly killed us all, kidnapped Lucia and left the rest of us to die. So yes, I’m suspicious.”

“Wow,” Anders said, truthfully in a bit of shock over the brief retelling. “Well, I have no ulterior motives. I just don’t want to be taken back to the Circle.”

“Then…” Alistair looked into the mage’s eyes again and stuttered to a verbal halt.

“Then?”

“Stay here. Stay with us.”

“Us?” Anders asked, face drawing nearer the man who’d looked near death the last time he’d seen him. “Or you?”

Alistair swallowed and squeaked, “Both?”

Anders leaned back, a small smile gracing his features. “I don’t like to stay in one place for too long, but you make a compelling argument.”

“I…wait, I haven’t even made an argument.”

“Not with your words, no.”

Alistair’s face heated up as Anders winked, rose to his feet, and then leaned down and put his mouth to his ear. “Let me know if you need my healing later tonight.” He backed away. Held Ali’s gaze. “I like to be…thorough.”

With that, Alistair was gone from the room. And Alistair was just… _gone_.


	16. A Fresh Pair of Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fresh pair of eyes helps our group of intrepid do-gooders look at their looming issues in a whole new light. Also, an unexpected guest stirs things up.

“I knew something was off,” Zevran nodded, arms folded across his chest, as Alistair and Lucia finished telling their friends everything that had _actually_ occurred from the night of the Battle of Ostagar all the way through to the day before.

“He did,” Fergus confirmed with a nod as he bumped arms with Zevran. “It’s true. He knows your tells, Lu.”

“Damn,” she swore softly, but with a big grin as Zev winked at her.

“There is the other matter,” Wynne piped up, eyes on the assassin, “regarding the prophecy and what Fergus told us last night about your tattoo glowing.”

“And about the matching one on my arse glowing,” Lucia nodded, all hints of embarrassment long since gone given that sex and baby-making had largely been the focus of the past couple hours.

“If we attempt to straighten this all out, my brain may break,” Alistair half-joked. Anders, seated across the room, snorted, drawing a blush to Alistair’s cheek that pretty much everyone noticed. Ali tried not to look at Anders. He had indeed gone to see the healer the night before, but only because he truly did have a headache. Anders had been the consummate professional, but the hints he’d dropped had put Alistair in a tailspin that he was still trying to haul himself out of. With little success.

“If I may,” Anders spoke up, and suddenly all eyes were on him. “Forgive me. You can tell the mage to begone if you like. I know I’m new here, but…well, something occurred to me as I was listening to all these details.”

“Mages don’t ever get told begone here, or I’d be out of a job,” Lucia quipped. “Go ahead, please. I think we could do with a fresh set of eyes on this.”

Many nods and murmurs of assent followed.

“It sounds to me like you have been thinking about this entire situation the wrong way round,” Anders began, drawing several looks of surprise. He rose to his feet somewhat nervously, and yet spoke with such confidence that he commanded attention.

“In what way?” Alistair asked, genuinely curious.

Anders had eyes only for him, as though they were alone in the room and he was responding to no one else. He ticked off his points fingertip by fingertip as a new landscape began to emerge from the mess of paints dumped all over their lives.

“Griffons aren’t dead; they’re very much alive.”

“Yes, and safe for the moment,” Lucia nodded.

“There are currently only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden that you are aware of, which means it’s up to you to amass enough of an army that both a horde of darkspawn and an archdemon can be slain.”

“Yes,” Alistair nodded.

“Zevran’s tattoo matches the birthmark on Lucia, and the child she carries appears to harbor incredible magical capabilities.”

“The feel of it is like nothing I’ve ever experienced,” Wynne confirmed.

“Nor I,” Anders agreed, finally tearing his eyes from Alistair’s. “I felt it, too, when I examined Lucia this morning. I concentrated very carefully on the child, and if I don’t miss my guess, it is _changing_ you, Lucia.”

“In the normal way all mothers are changed by the children they bear, no doubt,” Leliana stated.

“Not exactly,” Anders countered, then turned to Lucia. “Morrigan told you of their plans for your child, did she not?”

Lucia nodded. “She originally wanted to lay with Alistair, conceive a child and have that child take in the soul of the archdemon when we slew it.”

“Like that ever would’ve happened,” Alistair growled, face gone completely red.

Oghren chuckled.

“Think about that for a moment,” Anders nodded enthusiastically. “King Cailan didn’t know about the taint. He didn’t know that was what made Grey Wardens, Grey Wardens. For all he knew, Lucia was going to bear a completely normal royal child who could one day become king or queen. But Morrigan and Flemeth knew even before that, that conceiving a child with a Grey Warden would cause the child to have the taint.”

“I’m lost,” Fergus confessed.

“If an archdemon’s soul would go into a tainted child only barely conceived upon the slaying of its host, you must ask yourself why go to the extreme of conceiving a tainted child when there are two other tainted bodies right there for it to home in on, in Lucia and Alistair?”

“That is…a fair point,” Zevran nodded, brows furrowed in thought. “Assuming that it is normal for an archdemon’s soul to move into another body when it loses the one it’s in, of course.”

“That’s it,” Alistair breathed, snapping his fingers. “Duncan told me that there was a lot left for me to learn about Grey Wardens, and one of the times he said that was after I asked him why it had to be us that killed the archdemon.” His face fell a bit, as it always did when Duncan came up. “He never got the chance to explain.”

Anders moved like a cat, carefully drawing closer to Alistair until he perched against the edge of the table where the warden was seated. He reached out and touched his index fingertip to Alistair’s temple, and Al visibly relaxed, looked up and got a bit stuck gazing into Anders’ eyes. Again. The mage smiled.

“We have griffons,” Lucia stated. “We have the armies, the promises of help from the three groups wardens have treaties with. We have defeated foes who may have sabotaged our efforts to defeat this Blight, and we’ll shortly have Shale back with us as well, so we’ll be whole.”

“But you cannot…” Zevran began, then his voice trailed off. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

“What?” Lucia asked, darting to stand in front of him, alarmed by the look on his face.

“It’s not the taint,” he whispered. “It’s the elven blood.”

“You’ve lost me,” Wynne stated, everyone else nodding.

“The prophecy you have told me about. I was not there for the original telling, as I had already left for here. But did you not state,” and here he turned to face Wynne, “that an elf-blooded who looks like an elf, presumably me, was a portent for the fact that an elf-blooded king was going to rule from death.”

“Yes,” Wynne nodded.

“And did you also not then conclude that meant Cailan was elf-blooded?”

“Shit,” Alistair breathed from across the room. “I picked up on the same thing.”

Lucia’s mouth grew round. “Because Cailan is actually your _twin_ ,” she breathed. “You and Cailan are half-elf! Your _mother_ was an elf!”

“Have you ever encountered a fully elven Grey Warden?” Zevran asked.

None of them had ever heard or seen depictions of Grey Wardens being anything other than human or dwarven.

“Yes,” Anders breathed, clapping his hands together as the wheels of his medical mind churned. “That’s it. It has to be.” He whirled on Alistair. “Morrigan needed to sleep with you specifically, because not only do you bear the taint, but you also bear elven blood and she knew that.”

“How?” Alistair asked. “No one knew who my mother was. I didn’t even know, originally!”

“One other knew for certain,” Sten stated matter-of-factly. “I overheard you tell Lucia that Loghain was your father Maric’s best friend, which meant you were certain he knew that you existed back when we thought Cailan was the rightful heir and you the bastard.”

“Which meant,” Alistair said in a worried voice, “that Loghain knew damn well Maric had lain with an elf and produced children.”

“One of which,” Zevran pointed out, “was very carefully chosen as the heir, with the other being the hidden spare.” He tsked. “This is almost juicier than Antivan politicking.”

“Your mother,” came a woman’s voice from the foyer entry. All occupants turned as one to look at the elven woman with dark hair who strode somewhat regally into the main hall, “was not only an elf, but also once a Grey Warden herself.”

Anders let out something that resembled a nug squeak. “Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

She nodded at him, then met Alistair’s eyes as he asked, “Who are you? How do you know this about my mother?”

“Because,” Fiona stated matter-of-factly but yet not without kindness, “ _I_ am the one who bore Maric’s only two heirs.”

“You…” Alistair stared. “You’re my mother?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, turning her attention to Lucia. “And I know what is happening right now with the grandchild you carry because it is the same thing that happened to me.”

“The taint,” Wynne said, coming forward as she pointed at Fiona. “Everyone in the Circles hears your story. You were of the Circle, recruited by the Wardens, and then mysteriously returned to the Circle some years later.”

“Taint-free!” Anders added.

“Taint-free?” Lucia repeated. “Because of the children you carried?”

“Because of my blood,” Fiona corrected. “It has taken me some time to track you down. Thankfully, you returned home, which made it easier.”

“Why have you been looking for her?” Alistair asked, unable to let go of the protectiveness he felt toward his fellow warden.

“Because if she attempts to kill the archdemon,” Fiona stated, “she will die. And so will the future of Ferelden.”


	17. Mother Elf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders' fresh look at the wardens' situation gives a new perspective, but leaves questions unanswered. And then into Cousland Castle walks a dark-haired elf...

“I knew something was off,” Zevran nodded, arms folded across his chest, as Alistair and Lucia finished telling their friends everything that had _actually_ occurred from the night of the Battle of Ostagar all the way through to the day before.

“He did,” Fergus confirmed with a nod as he bumped arms with Zevran. “It’s true. He knows your tells, Lu.”

“Damn,” she swore softly, but with a big grin as Zev winked at her.

“There is the other matter,” Wynne piped up, eyes on the assassin, “regarding the prophecy and what Fergus told us last night about your tattoo glowing.”

“And about the matching one on my arse glowing,” Lucia nodded, all hints of embarrassment long since gone given that sex and baby-making had largely been the focus of the past couple hours.

“If we attempt to straighten this all out, my brain may break,” Alistair half-joked. Anders, seated across the room, snorted, drawing a blush to Alistair’s cheek that pretty much everyone noticed. Ali tried not to look at Anders. He had indeed gone to see the healer the night before, but only because he truly did have a headache. Anders had been the consummate professional, but the hints he’d dropped had put Alistair in a tailspin that he was still trying to haul himself out of. With little success.

“If I may,” Anders spoke up, and suddenly all eyes were on him. “Forgive me. You can tell the mage to begone if you like. I know I’m new here, but…well, something occurred to me as I was listening to all these details.”

“Mages don’t ever get told begone here, or I’d be out of a job,” Lucia quipped. “Go ahead, please. I think we could do with a fresh set of eyes on this.”

Many nods and murmurs of assent followed.

“It sounds to me like you have been thinking about this entire situation the wrong way round,” Anders began, drawing several looks of surprise. He rose to his feet somewhat nervously, and yet spoke with such confidence that he commanded attention.

“In what way?” Alistair asked, genuinely curious.

Anders had eyes only for him, as though they were alone in the room and he was responding to no one else. He ticked off his points fingertip by fingertip as a new landscape began to emerge from the mess of paints dumped all over their lives.

“Griffons aren’t dead; they’re very much alive.”

“Yes, and safe for the moment,” Lucia nodded.

“There are currently only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden that you are aware of, which means it’s up to you to amass enough of an army that both a horde of darkspawn and an archdemon can be slain.”

“Yes,” Alistair nodded.

“Zevran’s tattoo matches the birthmark on Lucia, and the child she carries appears to harbor incredible magical capabilities.”

“The feel of it is like nothing I’ve ever experienced,” Wynne confirmed.

“Nor I,” Anders agreed, finally tearing his eyes from Alistair’s. “I felt it, too, when I examined Lucia this morning. I concentrated very carefully on the child, and if I don’t miss my guess, it is _changing_ you, Lucia.”

“In the normal way all mothers are changed by the children they bear, no doubt,” Leliana stated.

“Not exactly,” Anders countered, then turned to Lucia. “Morrigan told you of their plans for your child, did she not?”

Lucia nodded. “She originally wanted to lay with Alistair, conceive a child and have that child take in the soul of the archdemon when we slew it.”

“Like that ever would’ve happened,” Alistair growled, face gone completely red.

Oghren chuckled.

“Think about that for a moment,” Anders nodded enthusiastically. “Alistair told me last night” and here several eyebrows raised and Alistair got more than a few knowing looks which made him blush even though it wasn’t what they were thinking “that King Cailan didn’t know about the taint. He didn’t know that was what made Grey Wardens, Grey Wardens. For all he knew, Lucia was going to bear a completely normal royal child who could one day become king or queen and given her noble birth, even though a bastard, it would have been far more acceptable than, say, laying with an elf as his own father had done. But Morrigan and Flemeth knew even before that, that conceiving a child with a Grey Warden would cause the child to have the taint.”

“I’m lost,” Fergus confessed.

“In other words,” Wynne offered, “even the King of Ferelden didn’t know such a basic thing about wardens, but this Witch of the Wilds and her daughter, did.”

“That’s…odd,” Fergus acknowledged.

Anders nodded. “Now, if an archdemon’s soul would go into a tainted child only barely conceived upon the slaying of its host, you must ask yourself why go to the extreme of conceiving a tainted child when there are two other tainted bodies right there for it to home in on, in Lucia and Alistair?”

“That is…a fair point,” Zevran nodded, brows furrowed in thought. “Assuming that it is normal for an archdemon’s soul to move into another body when it loses the one it’s in, of course.”

“That’s it,” Alistair breathed, snapping his fingers. “Duncan told me that there was a lot left for me to learn about Grey Wardens, and one of the times he said that was after I asked him why it had to be us that killed the archdemon.” His face fell a bit, as it always did when Duncan came up. “He never got the chance to explain.”

Anders moved like a cat, carefully drawing closer to Alistair until he perched against the edge of the table where the warden was seated. “What he didn’t explain to you was that the reason it had to be you was because you wouldn’t survive an archdemon trying to move into you.” He reached out and touched his index fingertip to Alistair’s temple, and Al visibly relaxed, looked up and got a bit stuck gazing into Anders’ eyes. Again. The mage smiled.

“We have griffons,” Lucia stated. “We have the armies, the promises of help from the three groups wardens have treaties with. We have defeated foes who may have sabotaged our efforts to defeat this Blight, and we’ll shortly have Shale back with us as well, so we’ll be whole.”

“But you cannot…” Zevran began, then his voice trailed off. “Oh. Oh, shit.”

“What?” Lucia asked, darting to stand in front of him, alarmed by the look on his face.

“It’s not the taint,” he whispered. “It’s the elven blood.”

“You’ve lost me,” Wynne stated, everyone else nodding.

“The prophecy you have told me about. I was not there for the original telling, as I had already left our camp. But did you not state,” and here he turned to face Wynne, “that an elf-blooded who looks like an elf, presumably me, was a portent for the fact that an elf-blooded king was going to rule from death.”

“Yes,” Wynne nodded.

“And did you also not then conclude that meant Cailan was elf-blooded?”

“Shit,” Alistair breathed from across the room. “I picked up on the same thing.”

Lucia’s mouth grew round. “Because Cailan is actually your _twin_ ,” she breathed. “You and Cailan are half-elf! Your _mother_ was an elf!”

“Have you ever encountered a fully elven Grey Warden?” Zevran asked.

None of them had ever heard or seen depictions of Grey Wardens being anything other than human or dwarven.

“Yes,” Anders breathed, clapping his hands together as the wheels of his medical mind churned. “That’s it. It has to be.” He whirled on Alistair. “Morrigan needed to sleep with you specifically, because not only do you bear the taint, but you also bear elven blood and she _knew_ that.”

“How?” Alistair asked. “No one knew who my mother was. I didn’t even know, originally!”

“One other knew for certain,” Sten stated matter-of-factly. “I overheard you tell Lucia that Loghain was your father Maric’s best friend, which meant you were certain he knew that you existed back when we thought Cailan was the rightful heir and you the bastard.”

“Which meant,” Alistair said in a worried voice, “that Loghain knew damn well Maric had lain with an elf and produced children.”

“One of which,” Zevran pointed out, “was very carefully chosen as the heir, with the other being the hidden spare.” He tsked. “This is almost juicier than Antivan politicking.”

“Your mother,” came a woman’s voice from the foyer entry. All occupants turned as one to look at the elven woman with dark hair who strode somewhat regally into the main hall, “was not only an elf, but also once a Grey Warden herself.”

Anders let out a sound that resembled a nug squeak. “Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

She nodded at him, then met Alistair’s eyes as he asked, “Who are you? How do you know this about my mother?”

“Because,” Fiona stated matter-of-factly but yet not without kindness, “ _I_ am the one who bore Maric’s only two heirs.”

“You…” Alistair stared. “You’re my mother?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, turning her attention to Lucia. “And I know what is happening right now with the child you carry because it is the same thing that happened to me.”

“The taint,” Wynne said, coming forward as she pointed at Fiona. “Everyone in the Circles hears your story. You were of the Circle, recruited by the Wardens, and then mysteriously returned to the Circle some years later.”

“Taint-free!” Anders added.

“Taint-free?” Lucia repeated. “Because of the children you carried?”

“Because of my blood,” Fiona corrected. “It has taken me some time to track you down. Thankfully, you returned home, which made it easier.”

“Why have you been looking for her?” Alistair asked, unable to let go of the protectiveness he felt toward his fellow warden.

“Because if she attempts to kill the archdemon,” Fiona stated, “she will die. And so will the future of Ferelden.”


	18. Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of his first solo talk with his birth mother, Alistair doesn't want to be left alone with his thoughts. Luckily, his new acquaintance-quickly-turning-friend Anders is there.
> 
> OR...
> 
> Alistair gets laid.

“So what’s she like?” asked the soft voice that Alistair had very much come to like. A lot. Along with the man it was coming from, as it turned out. “Your mother. Fiona.”

Alistair leaned heavily against the balustrade off the room Fergus had granted him for the duration of his stay at Cousland Castle. He sighed. “She gave up everything so people wouldn’t know Cailan and I were elf-blooded and came from a line of magic,” he said, shaking his head. “All…so pointless now, it would seem.”

“I apologize if I’m intruding. I’ll leave if you want me to. I just…I knocked and when you didn’t answer…” Anders’ voice trailed off. He shrugged and leaned down next to Alistair.

“No, please…” Alistair sighed again. “I’d rather not be left alone with my thoughts right now.”

“Good thing I’m both nosy and someone who genuinely enjoys your company, then!” the mage replied brightly.

“You do?”

“Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”

“Just about everyone who’s ever met me, I imagine.”

Anders scoffed, tsked and shook his head. “Lucia seems to like you just fine. Zevran doesn’t appear to hate you. And I have it on good authority that mabari bites equate to love.”

Alistair chuckled, which brightened the mage even more, until his face fell on the next words uttered.

“I guess…I’ve just spent my entire life with people not listening to me, not hearing what I say, or discounting it because of some bigger agenda that meant what I wanted didn’t matter.”

“Maybe…” Anders looked at him. Alistair met his gaze and held it. In that moment, the mage seemed to come to a decision, and when next he spoke it was with firm resolution underlying his gentle tones. “Maybe it’s simply that something deep down inside me understands what it’s like to be given no choice over the direction your life takes, simply because you were born who and what you are and others find it unacceptable, or want to use you because of it.”

Startled, Alistair pushed off the balustrade. Anders mimicked the gesture, and the two men now faced one another.

“Maybe it’s because I was born with the ability to do magic, and no matter how helpful it is, no matter how many lives I save, how many wounds I heal, how many broken bones I mend, all people without magic can see are the terrible things I am capable of which I personally have never done. As if those without magic are any less prone to barbarism.”

Alistair started to understand…to realize…to see. As a trained templar, he’d been blind to the mage’s side of things. Lucia had merely been…an oddity, but being a Grey Warden had trumped whatever else she was, and even why she’d been with her family at all rather than in a Circle. He suddenly saw what a single-minded fool he’d been. Always lamenting his own woes when there were others out there with real problems. Real issues. Real reasons they were hunted, hated, hurt. Alistair had never been subjected to that kind of treatment, no matter how unpleasant Isolde or the chantry had made his childhood. He had no idea what people like Anders had been through.

“The Circles are horrible,” the mage continued, eyes misting as he turned and paced into the bedroom. He stopped near the four-post bed, hand reaching out to grasp one of its carved wooden spires as if he needed the support. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to be watched all of the time. To have no privacy, even in your own room, which isn’t a room really, as it has no door, not even full walls.”

Alistair frowned as he walked into the room.

“The templars aren’t allowed to speak to you, but they do anyway, and it’s nearly always to say something derogatory. Mages are raped, beaten, made tranquil. If we form friendships with other mages we are watched even more and Maker forbid if we develop _feelings_ for someone.” He turned to face Alistair, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You daren’t show love in the Circles, for the templars will use it against you. When they know you are attached to something or someone, it becomes a tool with which they can control you.”

Swallowing hard, Alistair asked, “Is that why you ran away?”

“I’ve run away many times, for many specific reasons, but yes, most recently, I had started to develop feelings for another mage named Karl. He…” Anders looked away. “He kissed me. The next day I apparently looked at him with puppy dog eyes in front of a templar. So they transferred him to another Circle. Kirkwall, I think. I ran away, heartbroken.”

“Were you on your way to Kirkwall to find him?”

“Not really, no. I just wanted to be away from the place that reminded me too much of him.” He shrugged and half-smiled, wiping the tears from his face. “And I’m glad I did, because I would not have been in that Highever tavern when Cousland’s man came shouting for a healer.”

Alistair nodded. “You’re…really very good. I mean,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “to heal all of us as you did, it’s…” He met Anders’ eyes. “Your magical ability is truly amazing.”

“You know, I think that might be the first time anyone’s ever _complimented_ my magic so openly.”

“Surely Fergus thanked you!”

“Oh, of course. Everyone has. They’ve thanked me for the healing. But not specifically praised the magic.” Anders grinned and Alistair thought he’d never seen anyone so…beautiful.

Eyes that reminded him of Autumn, his favorite time of year. Lips that appeared to be so soft, so pliable. High cheekbones. Strong chin. Tall, almost beastly in size compared to Alistair’s compact and not overly muscular form. Alistair wondered what he looked like under all those layers of feather and fur. Was his chest covered by hair the golden color of sunrise, too? Was he firm of muscle as he appeared? Were his arms as built-out as the clothing made them look? Or was it simply a bulk of clothing hiding someone much smaller than he appeared to be?

“Honestly, I apologize for appearing gobsmacked, but I’m grateful that you’re the one who did the complimenting.”

“Me?” Alistair squeaked. He cleared his throat, bit his lip and looked away.

“I should probably leave you to your thoughts now?”

“No!” the elf-blooded man said a little too forcefully and much too quickly. He felt his face heat up.

Anders took a step forward. “Do you need to talk about…your mother? Being a Grey Warden?” He took another step forward. Alistair started trembling as amber eyes locked with his. “About Lucia and Zevran, or your twin brother’s child, or…killing archdemons?”

“Truthfully?” Alistair asked.

Anders nodded.

“I’d…rather forget it all. Even if only for a moment.”

“I can help with that,” the mage breathed, the air of it hitting Alistair’s lips a full second before Anders’ mouth did.

Alistair first whined and then moaned as Anders wrapped his arms around him, pulling him flush to his body. Ali’s hands slid up the mage’s soft outerwear, up to his back, around until he was holding him just as tightly, lips dancing together in a way that made Alistair’s nethers take notice. Anders’ hand squeezed his arse and he gasped, allowing the mage’s tongue to dart inside his mouth.

And Alistair was lost. The sensations coursing through his body were like being hit with lightning, a pleasure he’d never experienced with Lucia, and now he fully understood exactly why. She wasn’t what his body craved.

Anders was.

Alistair released his hold, noted that Anders’ pupils almost completely filled his irises. Felt himself harden as his eyes raked over pink, kiss-swollen lips. He took the mage’s hands and pulled him, walking backwards toward the bed.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Alistair panted breathlessly, “if you don’t…I mean, I’ve never…I just want…”

“What do you need?” Anders asked. “Whatever it is, I’m here.”

Alistair shrugged and looked helplessly into Anders’ eyes as he stroked his fingers along his cheek. “You,” he replied simply. “I need you.”

Anders smiled as he gently pushed Alistair backwards onto the bed. “Good,” he whispered into his ear as his hand rucked up Ali’s shirt and touched his skin for the first time, eliciting a hiss of pleasure from Alistair. “Because as it turns out, I need you, too.”

The tangle of limbs became indistinguishable. Alistair felt as though he’d died and been granted the best seat at the Maker’s side. Everything was on fire and yet every thirst was quenched. Every murmured word was cherished, every shout swallowed by kisses. Anders became his everything over the next few hours, and in the aftermath of the most satisfying and perfect thing Alistair felt like he’d ever done in his entire life, he knew exactly what he was going to do. And why.

“No more putting it off,” he said aloud as Anders held him beneath the blankets, naked body to naked body, lazily stroking his arm. “No more waffling. I’m going to do something of worth before I lose my taint.”

“Which is?”

“Kill an archdemon.”

Anders stiffened.

“What’s wrong?”

“I know this sounds incredibly stupid given that I’ve known you all of five days, but…” he turned Alistair’s face to his, eyes meeting eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“It’s your plan,” he stated. “You won’t.”

“My plan?”

“Separate the archdemon, keep the darkspawn away from it.”

“But if you’re alone with it, it will try to enter you and you’ll die!” Anders reminded him with no small amount of alarm. “Bad plan. Don’t follow it.”

“Oh, it won’t be _me_ killing it.” Alistair gave him a pointed look.

The mage’s eyes widened. “Me? I can’t kill an archdemon!”

“If I’m right, you won’t have to. I think I know who would want to do this…to save his sister.”

“Fergus.”

Alistair nodded. “I can lure the archdemon away. Lucia and Zevran can be responsible for the armies that keep the darkspawn separated from the dragon. Fergus is a warrior. He’ll slay the dragon probably better than I could, as he’s been at the swords longer.”

“But if you’re luring the dragon away, you’ll still be close enough for the archdemon to enter you when Fergus slays its body.”

“Not if you’re there to help me.”

“Help you how? There’s no healing spell that opens portals of escape, no way for me to keep a blighted archdemon from slamming into you.”

“Lucia once told me that one of the most basic spells most mages learn is how to create a barrier of protection. Which echoes what I was taught in my templar training.”

Anders’ eyes widened.

“Surely a man with magic as powerful as yours could toss up a barrier…”

“To block the archdemon from entering you.”

“And from harming you.”

Anders looked at Alistair and then kissed him quite soundly…and for a very, very long time.

Alistair laughed when the mage finally pulled away to take a breath. He rolled on top of Anders and grinned. “Amazing what inspires confidence in a man.”

Off Anders’ surprised look, Alistair dove in for their next round.


	19. Origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each of the people gathered at Castle Cousland has a reason for being there. Each contributes their own knowledge, experiences and understandings to a very large, very long group discussion that would be lacking without their input. But what comes out of that discussion is not something any of them was expecting. Nor is it something that any of them can really refute.

Silence fell like a blanket on the entire dining room the moment Alistair finished outlining his and Anders’ plan. Suddenly nobody was even eating, though just moments before they’d all been devouring a most delicious meal of pork sausages and fresh-laid eggs and warm, frothing, fresh milk all from the loosed Cousland livestock several of them had managed to round up from the surrounding countryside the day before.

Fergus finally stood, his place at the head of the table mirrored by Lucia’s at the foot. He looked at Alistair, who sat to Lucia’s left, then at Anders next to Alistair. Both men nodded. Fergus’ attention then turned to his sister, and to her right, Zevran. Both of them nodded as well.

“I honestly believe,” Fergus stated, “that this is the plan with the best chance of achieving all goals, both of keeping everyone here alive, including my niece or nephew-to-be, and of stopping this blight once and for all. The only question is, when and where? How can we anticipate where the archdemon is going to be at any given time? Alistair, do you know?”

Alistair rose to his feet, the hands he’d been holding with Anders under the table rising together as he did so. He squeezed the mage’s hand and they let go, prompting a huge smile from Lucia and looks of surprise from many of the rest of their friends. The last surviving Theirin joined Fergus at the head of the table, the latter moving slightly so they were shoulder to shoulder facing the group.

“Lucia and I have been keeping up with where the darkspawn horde has been traveling,” he stated. “We carried with us at one point a map, upon which we marked every area where they’d been reported, and in what numbers, along with the strength we ourselves as Grey Wardens felt them at in each place. When Wynne and I flew with Sandal to the other griffons to free them from their various imprisonments, we purposely overflew Lothering. It’s completely lost. Everything is destroyed, including the very earth it once rested upon.

Leliana’s head bowed, her mouth turning upside-down as she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Lels,” Alistair said softly.

She tried for a smile but failed, comforted by Wynne’s arm coming around her shoulders.

“The day Morrigan and Flemeth attacked us as we were on our way here to Cousland Castle, I took Sandal up twice.” Alistair visibly shook for a moment. Zevran and Fergus and Anders didn’t understand why. He cleared his throat. “Not all of you know that the attack occurred while Sandal and I were once again taking measure of the horde’s location.”

Fergus looked at him wide-eyed. “So you weren’t there when Lucia was taken?”

“No,” Alistair replied with a shake of his head. His face looked like he was a man in great pain. “I wasn’t there to protect her as I should have been.”

“The same could be said of me, given fleeing in the night to this very location,” came Zevran’s voice from the other end of the table. “Let us not dwell or we’ll forever be flogging ourselves for actions we cannot undo.”

Lucia reached her hand across the table to Zevran. He hesitated just a moment, then took it, kissed the back of it and looked at her like she was the most precious treasure he’d ever held. Shale, standing behind Zevran, tsked and groaned, making Lucia giggle softly. Alistair smiled, nodded his thanks to the elf, squared his shoulders and continued.

“I would bet my life that they’re headed to Denerim,” he said with more confidence than any of them ever thought they’d ever before heard in his voice. “There was another group that had branched off, but they appeared to be diverting to Redcliffe. I suspect it’s a military tactic. If we think they’ve gone to Redcliffe, we will head there to confront them.”

“Leaving the larger part of the horde, along with the archdemon, to take the capital city,” Sten concluded from his seat just to the right of Anders.

“Exactly,” Alistair nodded.

“They’re a lot more intelligent, a lot more organized, than any accounts I’ve read about previous blights,” Wynne stated. “And we have seen for ourselves in smaller skirmishes that such is the case with these new darkspawn we’ve encountered.”

“So what’s this archdemon gain from flattening your capital?” Oghren asked, fingers drumming on the table like he wished he could grab a skin of Chasind Sack Mead. “There are plenty of other places of import. Orzammar, for instance. Why wouldn’t they start there?”

“Darkspawn come up through the Deep Roads,” Bodahn offered. “It’s quite likely they figure than can take it any time, once they’ve eliminated the surfacers.”

“I don’t know,” came the too-chipper voice of Dagna, who it seemed was now best friends with Shale since putting her back together, enchanting the shit out of her and dubbing her the most beautiful thing she’d ever remade. “I don’t think anything’s ever that simple.”

“What do you mean?” Lucia asked. “It makes sense that a conquering nation would want to wipe out prominent cities. If you start with the capital of any land, it pretty much puts an end to a nationwide effort simply by cutting the head off the snake.”

“Ah, true enough, sister,” Fergus acknowledged. “A well-known military strategy. However, I’m curious, Miss Dagna, as to your thoughts.”

She huffed shyly. “Well, I’m really nobody, and I’d never even left Orzammar before Oghren sent for me to help this beauty here.” With that, she pointed toward Shale, who gods-honest _preened_ as a result. “But I’m thinking, right, you have this massive dragon, only it’s not really a dragon, is it? It’s an archdemon that lives _inside_ the body of a dragon. That means it found the dragon somewhere, and hopped into it, a soul inhabiting a dragonskin.”

“With you so far,” Zevran nodded, twisting in his chair to get eyes on the tiny little dwarf who was even more dwarfed standing next to Shale.

“But these archdemons, right, they’re the old gods that got banished and then goaded the magisters into invading the Maker’s home, isn’t that what your chantry tells you?”

“How in the name of the ancestors would you know that surfacer crap?” Oghren asked.

“I read. A lot. I study. A dwarf chantry brother in the Commons. Things come down from the surface. You know, knowledge stored in our memories is meant to be read, not to just sit there and gather dust.”

“We’re supposed to read ‘em?” Oghren grumbled. “Oh.”

Leliana snort-laughed.

“Anyway,” Dagna continued with an exaggerated eyeroll, “put yourself in one of these old gods’ shoes.”

“Must I?” Sten asked in all seriousness.

Dagna ticked points off on her fingers. “You’re a really powerful god in dragon form, worshiped by Tevinter. You are the ones who taught magic to the original mages, also of Tevinter. But who are you really? Most Thedosians believe the Old Gods were the Maker’s first creations, and when he became more interested in the rest of his creations – all of _us_ – they felt slighted.”

“Rightfully so, I suppose,” Wynne said. “Imagine your parent putting a sibling over you and relegating you to almost complete nonexistence.”

“Yes,” Alistair drawled in a monotone. “I can well imagine _that_ indeed.”

Wynne shot him a guilty look for bringing it up.

Dagna, however, was not to be stopped now that she was on a roll. “How does that make you feel?”

“Angry?” Anders offered.

“Yeah,” Alistair nodded. “I’d maybe feel like getting some revenge. Or justice for the wrong done.”

“Vengeance,” Anders finished, to Alistair’s enthusiastic nod.

“Exactly!” Dagna crowed, moving quickly up to the head of the table where her eyes were barely visible above its tall, flat surface. “You’re furious as anything, so as the story goes, you start whispering to the favored children to cause mischief. You convince Tevinter that you and your brothers are the true creators, rather than the Maker, and they use the magic _you_ taught them to pull you across the veil, where you take up residence in?”

“Dragons,” Leliana breathed, as her chantry knowledge all rushed into a jumble into her head, organizing itself slightly differently than what she’d been taught. “The Maker was so angry with what the Old Gods had done that he banished them to the Fade, putting them permanently to sleep.”

“But they were still able to communicate with dreamers,” Wynne picked up the tale. “The Tevinters call these dreamers _somniari_.”

Sten raised a hand. “The Tome of Koslund states that “the Old Gods were like unto dragons, as the first human kings were like unto ordinary men.” Those of the Qun have always interpreted this to mean that the Old Gods were indeed once of flesh as we are, but elevated to gods once the flesh had disappeared from these lands.”

“We had to memorize portions of the chant as part of templar training,” Alistair offered, face showing the clarity of mind he had found in his friends’ words. “In Threnodies 5 there is a passage that directly speaks to this.”

Without even thinking about it, Leliana, Wynne, Anders, Fergus and Lucia joined in with Alistair’s chanting song. “The demons who would be gods, began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth. And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars to the pretender-gods once more.”

Silence.

“That,” Dagna finally said, “was rather impressive.”

“Disturbing,” Oghren corrected.

“Interesting,” Sten offered.

“Ugh,” from Shale.

“The Verses of Dumat,” Dagna stated, “pick up where your chant leaves off.” When several of the group gave her strange looks, she shrugged. “What? When you study magic, _really_ study it as someone who can’t actually _perform_ it, then you have to read every single thing that helps you understand where it came from to begin with. This _entire tale_ is about the origins of magic, both from the chantry and from the old Tevinter manuscripts.”

“How did you get your hands on old Tevinter manuscripts all the way in Orzammar?” Wynne questioned.

Dagna smiled mysteriously. “Where do you think Tevinter stored its most prized possessions? Things it wanted to ensure no surfacer could ever touch?”

“The Deep Roads,” Bodahn breathed as if a few candles had just lit themselves inside his head. “My boy used to talk about a scary lady he saw in his dreams, how she was doing something to crystals with what he called ‘tall, dark people’ and…it was…Dagna, do you mean to tell us that Tevinter stored all these records in crystals? Like the Shaperate?”

“Exactly!” she shouted excitedly, then giggled almost maniacally. “The reason I stopped following Branka around is that she was looking for the Tevinter memories because she thought they’d help her find Caridin’s anvil to make more golems. She did find it, and I was there, lagging back so she wasn’t even aware of me. I saw what she did to her House. I saw the sacrifices they all made. But when all was said and done, they moved on from the Tevinter version of the Shaperate barely having touched it. I can’t tell you the hours I spent there absorbing knowledge and I’m still only about halfway through it all.”

“That makes so much sense it has to be true,” Zevran offered to Lucia’s agreeing nod.

But then Lucia frowned. “You said the Verses of Dumat pick up the tale. Who’s Dumat?”

“One of the Old Gods,” Dagna replied, “worshipped by Tevinter. Haven’t you ever wondered why all their decorations are dragons? It’s because those were their gods. Oh, they believed in some version of a creator god, like your Maker, but any worship of _him_ fell away once the Old Gods started whispering to Tevinter mages from the Fade and they started getting pulled through by the magisters, taking up residence in dragons. And what I was referring to with Dumat? It says, “Then a voice whispered within their hearts, ‘You are the Lords of the earth! Go forth to claim the empty throne of Heaven and be gods.’” That goading was what made the original Tevinter magisters think they could besiege where the Maker lived.”

“Yes,” Leliana nodded. “The Old Gods were sleeping so they could not physically attempt to dethrone the Maker. They used the magisters to perform this task for them. The chantry lore states that Dumat himself was the first Old God to be tainted by darkspawn since it was he who led the rest of them to this mad endeavor.”

“Ah, but that is only one version of events,” Fergus stated with great authority. “I remember one of my tutors saying that it was Dumat that created the darkspawn. That the corruption that is the taint which Grey Wardens bear, was the _cause_ of darkspawn.”

Silent until now, Grand Enchanter Fiona spoke up from the far back of the dining room where she had been silently observing with only Alistair and Fergus aware of her presence simply by virtue of their vantage point standing at the head of the table.

“No more will you bear the Light,” she sang. “To darkness flee, and be gone from My sight!"” Leliana’s voice joined hers. “And the Veil ripped beneath their feet, and the Seven fell. And the gates of the city slammed shut. And the wicked corruption they had carried covered it. And it opened no more.”

“Maker’s breath,” Leliana whispered, as though short of breath herself at the realization. “The Chant of Light tells the truth, yet the chantry teaches it not!”

Lucia shook her head. “The wicked corruption _they had carried_ covered the gates of the city.” She turned in her chair to stare at Fiona. “The seven magisters _brought_ the taint _with them_ to the Golden City. _They_ turned it black.”

“With the taint,” Alistair said as understanding settled over him like a mantle. “Andraste preserve us, that means that the darkspawn carry whatever it was the magisters had when they broke through.”

“And that is why they seek the archdemons,” Wynne picked up on the ideas being formed. “The taint that was within the magisters _came from_ the magic that was taught to the Tevinter mages originally, through the Veil, _by_ the Old Gods.”

“But then that means,” Anders said, a look of utter disbelief on his face, “that magic itself _is_ corrupt and evil. That…that it never should have been granted to humans.”

“That it is indeed a contagion, as is believed under the Qun,” Sten stated matter-of-factly as though they were all just figuring out what he’d known all along.

“Then the chantry’s teachings…” Anders’ voice was weak now, the devastation plain on his face for all to see. Alistair swallowed hard to see his new friend, new _lover_ , in such a state. One that he didn’t entirely understand. “They’ve been right all along, when they tell us in the Circles that mages and magic are responsible for the Maker turning his back on us. That they – magisters – were responsible not just for the First Blight, but for _darkspawn_.”

“They teach us to fear our magic,” Wynne said softly, as though for the first time allowing herself to see beyond the chantry’s rhetoric to how mages are really viewed. “Being a rare Spirit Healer, I was often treated much better than my peers. I…saw little of the things that you, Anders, complained of during your time in our Circle.” She shook her head. “I have been wrong all this time, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” Anders nodded. “But…the chantry’s been…right. I mean, none of the mages alive today had anything to do with breaking into Heaven, but the very existence of magic is a sin against the Maker. It was never supposed to be. _We_ were never supposed to be.”

“It’s still not our fault we were born with it,” Lucia countered. “I was kept out of the Circles by my family’s wealth, nobility and friendship with royalty, but I didn’t ask to be born with magic any more than you or Wynne did. Why should we be punished for what those magisters did all that time ago?”

Fergus held up his hand. “I understand this is a very sensitive topic. Trust me, my family has involved itself in similar discussions my entire life. But we are here to determine how to reasonably predict where we can corner the archdemon of our current blight, and separate it from its darkspawn.”

“Yes,” Dagna nodded enthusiastically. “And I was getting to that part. Now, if you believe that the magisters brought the darkness with them, and it was _their_ darkness that turned the Golden City to black, then by default you have to equate that darkness with magic. And who taught them this magic? Dumat and the other Old Gods. And who were they? The Maker’s original creations. Darkspawn were created by the very magic that the Old Gods could naturally do, created as such by the Maker. The magic that made them is trying to get itself _back_ to its origins.”

“Origins?” Alistair repeated. “You mean…the darkspawn wake an Old God because that’s where they trace the magic that made them coming from?”

“I get it!” Lucia shouted, hopping to her feet so fast that her chair would have flipped backwards had Zevran not reacted quickly to keep it upright. “They activate an Old God trying to get to the Maker, but the Maker doesn’t pay attention when the archdemon awakes and takes on the form of a dragon. The Maker doesn’t pay attention because he’s no longer watching. He’s not _in_ Heaven anymore, because Heaven was ruined by the magisters. Made black. Tainted.”

“But where is the Maker, then?” Zevran asked. “We are now within the fifth blight, meaning that there will be at least two more. But once the archdemons have ceased to exist, assuming we continue to vanquish them, the darkspawn will no longer have anyone to call to them. Is _that_ when the Maker is supposed to return?”

“Listen to yourselves carefully,” Fiona stated as she moved forward to stand next to Lucia. Without a word, she placed her hand over the slight rounding of the Grey Warden’s belly. “The prophecy of a half-human, half-elf who looks like an elf,” she nodded toward Zevran, “heralding the birth of an elf-blooded human royal,” she nodded toward Lucia, “is only part of it. Remember that I told you an elf cannot suffer the taint for long? That I was rid of it very quickly indeed, and that even now after a full year, as I told Alistair yester-eve, it is beginning already to lose its hold on him.”

She removed her hand as Lucia whispered, “This child I carry is so full of magic, _pure_ magic, that it enabled me to literally bring Zevran back to life.”

“Indeed,” Zevran said with a nod. “I have never heard of any mage who could do such a thing, and this one isn’t even born yet.”

“That’s because what Lucia carries isn’t a mage.”

All eyes locked onto the First Enchanter. Even Duke the mabari stopped panting for the first time in…ever.

“The griffons came back to life,” Fiona said. “The group of you gathered around this table represents every class, every station, every species of intelligent creature that came from the Maker. Dwarves. Elves. Half-bloods. Qunari. Mabari. Humans. Nobles. Mages. Chantry sisters and brothers. Templars. Even golems, who still have souls and were once dwarves of flesh.”

Dagna said thoughtfully, “Urthemiel, the current archdemon, was once worshiped as the Dragon of Beauty in Tevinter. In the old days, there was a holiday called Urthalis that was dedicated to him.”

“That’s the holiday we now call Wintersend,” Wynne interjected. “Dedicated to…” Her eyes widened. She looked at Alistair.

“The Maker,” Alistair breathed. “It is…” He stared down the table at Lucia. “You told me that the child was growing quickly within you. Faster than you thought it should.”

Lucia seemed unable to speak. Wynne said, “Yes. I was the one who noticed. She appears to be at least six months along now, when just a fortnight ago I would have sworn it was three.”

“It does hurt sometimes,” Lucia finally said, hands on her belly. “It stretches my skin so much I have to rub oils and potions into it to be able to sleep.”

“And you have no more armor that fits you,” Leliana added. “It’s as if the child is on a different timeline than our normal babies.”

“Is it trying to make Wintersend, which is only three weeks away?” Wynne asked. “But if so, why?”

“Origins,” Fiona repeated the word again. “Magic was passed from Old Gods to what became human mages. But the Old Gods were given it during creation, by the Maker. Thus the source of all magic has to have been the Maker. Powerful, original magic.”

“Then the magic that saved my life,” Zevran concluded incredulously, “was…the Maker’s _original_ magic?”

“The same that flows in Spirit Healers,” Fiona nodded, with a pointed look at first Wynne and then Anders. Both of them paled a bit when she stated, “It is no accident that as rare as these types of mages are, you have _two_ in your presence. However, even they are not as powerful as what grows inside this woman,” she finished, gesturing to the youngest Cousland.

“But that would mean…” Lucia shook her head. “No. That’s preposterous.”

“Is it any more preposterous than discovering that elves can live through the taint? That Zevran is half-human but looks fully elf? That griffons live still? That a baby dwarf was left alone in the Deep Roads precisely where it would be found by a man kind enough to raise the child as his own? Why do you think these things are? To return to my original point, answer me this: why would the magic that magisters brought to Heaven be able to permanently taint humans but not elves?”

“Elves were once magical beings that lived forever,” Zevran said, eyes widening with understanding. “For the brief time I journeyed with a Dalish clan, I recall their _hahren_ telling tales of ancient elves who were eternal. The Beyond, that is what they call the Fade, it was a holy place where the Dalish gods once lived. They knew it as the sky, and what you call the creation of the veil, they called it ‘holding back the sky’. They believe that dragons ruled the skies prior to the raising of the veil that separated the Fade from where we are.”

“Dragons,” Fergus repeated. “The Old Gods worshiped by Tevinter. The ones that goaded the magisters—”

“—into invading Heaven,” Alistair finished. “Where the magic the dragons taught them tainted the Maker’s home.”

“What if…” Anders rose to his feet, scrubbing the palms of his hand down his face and then running them up and over his head. “ _Maker_ …what if they didn’t just taint the Golden City and turn it black? What if the Maker was as angry as he was because _they tainted him, too_?”

Utter silence.

“Do you know what you’re saying?” Alistair asked. “You’re saying…the Maker became…what, an archdemon?”

“ _The_ archdemon,” Anders said, face looking like a child who’d received more gifts than he’d ever imagined on his birthday. “Which means he would be able to be reborn as all archdemons can, into another body that is then shaped into what they want it to be, which is the dragons of old.”

“This sounds completely blasphemous,” Leliana noted. “However, it makes the most sense.” She turned to Lucia. “You said that Morrigan was intending to lie with Alistair to conceive a child that would take in the god of this blight’s archdemon.”

“That’s right,” Lucia nodded. “That’s what she told me when I was imprisoned.”

“But she and her mother decided that keeping you alive long enough for you to bear this child you now carry was a better bargain. You have to ask yourself why, do you not?”

“It’s Cailan’s child,” Wynne stated. “Has that something to do with it?”

“And it was _my_ child she wished to conceive,” Alistair reminded them.

“And you,” Fiona said, her gaze piercing, “were Cailan’s twin.”

“Twins with elf blood, but conceived by royalty, with someone who already _had_ the taint, but was an elf,” Zevran muttered, brain working overtime. “They cannot die by the taint but are also of royal blood. There are two in case something happens to one of them.”

“And something does, but beforehand he ensures the legacy will carry on by laying with me,” Lucia continued.

“Conceiving a child,” Fergus added.

“That Morrigan and Flemeth knew the archdemon could _not_ enter, obviously,” Sten pointed out.

“Meaning there is already a soul in the child,” Shale offered.

“King Cailan’s?” Bodahn asked.

Anders’ face went so white as he grabbed the table edge to steady himself that Alistair rushed to his side thinking he was about to pass out. “What? What is it?” he asked, hands out to catch the mage should he fall.

“The Maker,” Anders breathed, looking first at Lucia and then at Fiona. “The Theirin line. It’s been…the Maker all along.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped. “The Maker’s…soul?” he asked as he turned to look at his mother.

Fiona nodded once, curtly, her mouth a grim line. “Origins.”


End file.
